THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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SONS  AND  LOVERS 


i 


THE  MODERN  LIBRARY 

OF  THE  WORLD'S  BEST  BOOKS 

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SONS  AND 


LOVERS 


BY 


D.  H.  LAWRENCE 


r  0 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 


JOHN  MACY 


THE    MODERN    LIBRARY  -  NEW  YORK 


THE  LIBRARY  „kMmlM 
T«  UNIVERSITY  Of  NORTH  CABOLWA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


COPYRIGHT,  1913.  BY  THOMAS   SELTZER,  INC 


INTRODUCTION  COPYRIGHT,  I922t 
BY  BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT 


(^Manufactured  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Printed  by  Parkway  Printing  Company  Bound  by  H.  Wolff 

Published  by  A.  S.  Barnes      Co.,  Inc. 
Distributed  by  Random  House,  Inc. 


INTRODUCTION 


AN  INTRODUCTION  to  this  book  is  as  superfluous  as  a 
.  candle  in  front  of  a  searchlight.  But  a  convention  of 
publishing  seems  to  require  that  the  candle  should  be  there, 
and  I  am  proud  to  be  the  one  to  hold  it.  About  ten  years  ago 
I  picked  up  from  the  pile  of  new  books  on  my  desk  a  copy 
of  Sons  and  Lovers  by  a  man  of  whom  I  had  never  heard, 
and  I  started  to  race  through  it  with  the  immoral  speed  of 
the  professional  reviewer.  But  after  a  page  or  two  I  found 
myself  reading,  really  reading.  Here  was—here  is— a  master- 
piece in  which  every  sentence  counts,  a  book  crammed  with 
significant  thought  and  beautiful,  arresting  phrases,  the  work 
of  a  singular  genius  whose  gifts  are  more  richly  various  than 
those  of  any  other  young  English  novelist. 

To  appreciate  the  rich  variety  of  Mr.  Lawrence  we  must 
read  his  later  novels  and  his  volumes  of  poetry.  But  Sons 
and  Lovers  reveals  the  range  of  his  power.  Here  are  com- 
bined and  fused  the  hardest  sort  of  "realism"  and  almost 
lyric  imagery  and  rhythm.  The  speech  of  the  people  is  that 
of  daily  life  and  the  things  that  happen  to  them  are  normal 
adventures  and  accidents;  they  fall  in  love,  marry,  work,  fail, 
succeed,  die.  But  of  their  deeper  emotions  and  of  the  rela- 
tions of  these  little  human  beings  to  the  earth  and  to  the  stars 
Mr.  Lawrence  makes  something  as  near  to  poetry  as  prose 
dare  be  without  violating  its  proper  "other  harmony." 

Take  the  marvellous  paragraph  on  next  to  the  last  page 
(Mr.  Lawrence  depends  so  little  on  plot  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word  that  it  is  perfectly  fair  to  read  the  end 
of  his  book  first) : 

"Where  was  he?  One  tiny  upright  speck  of  flesh,  less 
than  an  ear  of  wheat  lost  in  the  field.  He  could  not  bear  it. 
On  every  side  the  immense  dark  silence  seemed  pressing 

v 


INTRODUCTION 


him,  so  tiny  a  spark,  into  extinction,  and  yet,  almost  nothing, 
he  could  not  be  extinct.  Night,  in  which  everything  was 
lost,  went  reaching  out,  beyond  stars  and  sun,  stars  and  sun, 
a  few  bright  grains,  went  spinning  round  for  terror,  and 
holding  each  other  in  embrace,  there  in  the  darkness  that 
outpassed  them  all,  and  left  them  tiny  and  daunted.  So  much, 
and  himself,  infinitesimal,  at  the  core  a  nothingness,  and  yet 
not  nothing." 

Such  glorious  writing  (and  this  lovely  passage  is  matched 
by  many  others)  lifts  the  book  far  above  a  novel  which  is 
merely  a  story.  I  beg  the  reader  to  attend  to  every  line  of  it 
and  not  to  miss  a  single  one  of  the  many  sentences  that  haunt, 
startle,  and  waylay.  Some  are  rhapsodical  and  cosmic,  like 
the  foregoing;  others  are  shrewd,  "realistic"  observations  of 
things  and  people.  In  one  of  his  books  Mr.  Lawrence  makes 
a  character  say,  or  think,  that  life  is  "mixed."  That  indicates 
his  philosophy  and  his  method.  He  blends  the  accurately 
literal  and  trivial  with  the  immensely  poetic. 

To  find  a  similar  blending  of  minute  diurnal  detail  and 
wide  imaginative  vision  we  must  go  back  to  two  older 
novelists,  Hardy  and  Meredith.  I  do  not  mean  that  Mr. 
Lawrence  derives  immediately  from  them  or,  indeed,  that 
he  is  clearly  the  disciple  of  any  master.  I  do  feel  simply 
that  he  is  of  the  elder  stature  of  Hardy  and  Meredith, 
ai>d  I  know  of  no  other  young  novelist  who  is  quite 
worthy  of  their  company.  When  I  first  tried  to  express  this 
comparison,  this  kinship,  I  was  roundly  contradicted  by  a 
fellow-critic,  who  pointed  out  that  Meredith  and  Hardy  are 
utterly  unlike  each  other  and  that  therefore  Mr.  Lawrence 
cannot  resemble  both.  To  be  sure,  nothing  is  more  odious 
than  forced  comparisons,  nothing  more  tedious  than  to  dis- 
cover parallels  between  one  work  of  art  and  another.  An 
artist's  mastery  consists  in  his  difference  from  other  masters. 
But  to  refer  a  young  man  of  genius  to  an  older  one,  at  the 
same  time  proclaiming  his  independence  and  originality,  is  a 
fair,  if  not  very  subtle,  method  of  praising  him. 

Mr.  Lawrence  possesses  supremely  in  his  way  a  sense 
which  Meredith  and  Hardy  possess  supremely  in  theirs, 


INTRODUCTION  VII 

a  sense  of  the  earth,  of  nature,  of  the  soil  in  which  human 
nature  is  rooted.  His  landscapes  are  not  painted  cloth;  they 
are  the  living  land  and  sky,  inseparable  from  the  characters 
of  the  people  who  move  upon  the  land,  are  pathetically 
adrift  under  the  splendid  inscrutable  heavens.  The  beauty  of 
the  scene,  for  all  its  splendour,  is  usually  sad;  nature  is  baf- 
fling and  tragic  in  its  loveliness.  Young  people  in  love  make 
ecstatic  flights  to  the  clouds  and  meet  with  Icarian  disasters. 
From  luminous  moments  they  plunge  into  what  Mr.  Law- 
rence calls  "the  bitterness  of  ecstasy.''  Their  pain  outweighs 
their  joy  many  times  over,  as  in  Hardy,  and  as  in  the  more 
genial  Meredith,  whose  rapturous  digression  played  on  a 
penny  whistle  in  Richard  Feverel  is  a  heart-breaking  prepa- 
ration for  the  agonies  that  ensue. 

Does  not  the  phrase,  "bitterness  of  ecstasy,"  sound,  with 
all  honour  to  Mr.  Lawrence,  as  if  Hardy  might  have  made 
it?  And  would  you  be  surprised  if  you  found  in  Hardy  the 
following  sentence,  which  you  will  find  on  page  165  of  this 
book?— "Annie's  candle  flickered,  and  she  whimpered  as  the 
first  men  appeared,  and  the  limbs  and  bowed  heads  of  six 
men  struggled  to  climb  into  the  room  bearing  the  coffin  that 
rode  like  sorrow  on  their  living  flesh." 

Mr.  Lawrence's  tragic  sense  and  the  prevalent  indifference 
to  magnificent  writing  probably  account  for  the  fact  that 
this  fine  novel  did  not  instantly  win  a  large  audience.  And. 
by  the  way,  that  tragic  sense  and  that  indifference  of  the 
multitude  to  great  work  render  grotesquely  absurd  the  un- 
successful attempt  of  the  vicious  anti-vice  snoopers  of  New 
York  to  suppress  Mr.  Lawrence's  Women  in  Love.  The 
weak  and  the  ignorant  are  quite  safe  from  this  austere  artist, 
for  they  will  not  read  a  third  of  the  way  through  any  of  hi? 
novels. 

Though  with  this  book  Mr.  Lawrence  took  his  place  at 
once  among  the  established  veterans,  nevertheless  he  belongs 
to  our  time,  to  this  century,  not  to  the  age  of  Victoria.  He 
is  solid  and  mature,  but  he  shows  his  youth  in  an  inquisitive 
restlessness,  and  he  betrays  his  modernity,  if  in  no  other  way, 
by  his  interest  in  psychoanalysis.  He  has  made  amateurish 


7iii  INTRODUCTION 

excursions  into  that  subject,  which  may  or  may  not  be  a 
fruitful  subject  for  a  novelist  to  study.  What  he  has  brought 
back  in  the  form  of  exposition  interests  me  very  little,  but 
there  is  no  doubt  that  his  investigations  have  influenced  his 
fiction,  even  this  book  which  was  written  before  everybody 
went  a-freuding.  The  true  novelist,  the  analyst  of  human 
character,  has  always  been  a  psychologist  in  an  untechnical 
sense.  Before  Henry  James  was  Balzac;  before  Balzac  was 
Goethe;  before  Goethe  was  the  author  of  Hamlet.  Mr. 
Lawrence  is  too  fine  an  artist  to  import  into  his  art  the 
dubious  lingo  of  psychoanalysis.  I  doubt,  however,  if  without 
that  muddled  pseudo-science  (muddled  because  the  facts  are 
muddled)  Mr.  Lawrence's  later  fiction  would  be  just  what 
it  is.  And  the  main  theme  of  Sons  and  Lovers  is  the  rela- 
tion of  Paul  to  his  mother.  No,  it  is  not  an  CEdipus-Jocasta 
"complex"  nor  a  Hamlet-Gertrude  "complex,"  though  you 
may  assimilate  this  touching  story  to  those  complexes  if  you 
enjoy  translating  human  life  in  such  terms.  The  important 
thing  is  that  Mr.  Lawrence  has  created  a  new  version  of  the 
old  son-mother  story  which  is  more  ancient  than  Sophocles 
and  which  shall  be  a  modern  instance  as  long  as  there  are 
poets  and  novelists.  In  its  lowest  form  it  is  the  sentimental 
home-and-mother  theme  so  dear,  and  rightly  dear,  to  the 
hearts  of  the  people.  In  its  highest  form  it  is  tragic  poetry. 
And  only  a  little  below  that  poetry  is  the  tremendous  pathos 
of  Paul's  last  whimper  in  this  book. 

Let  whoever  cares  to  try  analyse  or  psychoanalyse.  I 
doubt  if  Mr.  Lawrence  himself  could  make  clear  work  of 
explaining  his  book.  It  is  not  necessary.  It  is  enough  that  he 
has  made  his  characters  understandable  through  and  through, 
even  their  perplexities  understandable  as  perplexities.  That  is 
all  the  artist,  the  interpreter  of  life  in  fiction,  can  do  or 
ought  to  do.  And  to  do  it  with  clearness  and  fidelity  and 
with  magical  command  of  words,  the  mysterious  thing  called 
"style,"  is  to  be  a  great  artist. 

Out  with  my  candle?  There  is  light  on  the  next  page. 

John  Macy 


CONTENTS 

f 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  The  Early  Married  Life  of  the  Morels  3 

II  The  Birth  of  Paul,  and  Another  Battle  34 

III  The  Casting  Off  of  Morel- 

the  Taking  On  of  William  56 

IV  The  Young  Life  of  Paul  70 
V  Paul  Launches  into  Life  100 

VI  Death  in  the  Family  136 

VII  Lad-and-Girl  Love  169 

VIII  Strife  in  Love  2 1 3 

IX  Defeat  of  Miriam  254 

X  Clara  297 

XI  The  Test  on  Miriam  327 

XII  Passion  354 

XIII  Baxter  Dawes  401 

XIV  The  Release  444 
XV  Derelict  479 


is 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
PART  ONE 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE 
MORELS 


THE  Bottoms"  succeeded  to  "Hell  Row."  Hell  Row 
was  a  block  of  thatched,  bulging  cottages  that  stood 
by  the  brook-side  on  Greenhill  Lane.  There  lived  the  col- 
liers who  worked  in  the  little  gin-pits  two  fields  away.  The 
brook  ran  under  the  alder-trees,  scarcely  soiled  by  these 
small  mines,  whose  coal  was  drawn  to  the  surface  by  don- 
keys that  plodded  wearily  in  a  circle  round  a  gin.  And  all 
over  the  countryside  were  these  same  pits,  some  of  which 
had  been  worked  in  the  time  of  Charles  II,  the  few  colliers 
and  the  donkeys  burrowing  down  like  ants  into  the  earth, 
making  queer  mounds  and  little  black  places  among  the 
corn-fields  and  the  meadows.  And  the  cottages  of  these  coal- 
miners,  in  blocks  and  pairs  here  and  there,  together  with  odd 
farms  and  homes  of  the  stockingers,  straying  over  the  parish, 
formed  the  village  of  Bestwood. 

Then,  some  sixty  years  ago,  a  sudden  change  took  place. 
The  gin-pits  were  elbowed  aside  by  the  large  mines  of  the 
financiers.  The  coal  and  iron  field  of  Nottinghamshire 
and  Derbyshire  was  discovered.  Carston,  Wake  and  Co.  ap- 
peared. Amid  tremendous  excitement,  Lord  Palmerston  for- 
mally opened  the  company's  first  mine  at  Spinney  Park,  on 
the  edge  of  Sherwood  Forest. 
About  this  time  the  notorious  Hell  Row,  which  through 

3 


4  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

growing  old  had  acquired  an  evil  reputation,  was  burned 
down,  and  much  dirt  was  cleansed  away. 

Carston,  Waite  and  Co.  found  they  had  struck  on  a  good 
thing,  so,  down  the  valleys  of  the  brooks  from  Selby  and 
Nuttall,  new  mines  were  sunk,  until  soon  there  were  six 
pits  working.  From  Nuttall,  high  up  on  the  sandstone  among 
the  woods,  the  railway  ran,  past  the  ruined  priory  of  the 
Carthusians  and  past  Robin  Hood's  Well,  down  to  Spinney 
Park,  then  on  to  Minton,  a  large  mine  among  corn-fields; 
from  Minton  across  the  farm-lands  of  the  valley-side  to 
Bunker's  Hill,  branching  off  there,  and  running  north  to 
Beggarlee  and  Selby,  that  looks  over  at  Crich  and  the  hills 
of  Derbyshire;  six  mines  like  black  studs  on  the  country- 
side, linked  by  a  loop  of  fine  chain,  the  railway. 

To  accommodate  the  regiments  of  miners,  Carston,  Waite 
and  Co.  built  the  Squares,  great  quadrangles  of  dwellings  on 
the  hillside  of  Bestwood,  and  then,  in  the  brook  valley,  on 
the  site  of  Hell  Row,  they  erected  the  Bottoms. 

The  Bottoms  consisted  of  six  blocks  of  miners'  dwellings, 
two  rows  of  three,  like  the  dots  on  a  blank-six  domino,  and 
twelve  houses  in  a  block.  This  double  row  of  dwellings  sat 
at  the  foot  of  the  rather  sharp  slope  from  Bestwood,  and 
looked  out,  from  the  attic  windows  at  least,  on  the  slow 
climb  of  the  valley  towards  Selby. 

The  houses  themselves  were  substantial  and  very  decent. 
One  could  walk  all  round,  seeing  little  front  gardens  with 
auriculas  and  saxifrage  in  the  shadow  of  the  bottom  block, 
sweet-williams  and  pinks  in  the  sunny  top  block;  seeing 
neat  front  windows,  little  porches,  little  privet  hedges,  and 
dormer  windows  for  the  attics.  But  that  was  outside;  that 
was  the  view  on  to  the  uninhabited  parlours  of  all  the 
colliers'  wives.  The  dwelling-room,  the  kitchen,  was  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  facing  inward  between  the  blocks,  look- 
ing at  a  scrubby  back  garden,  and  then  at  the  ash-pits.  And 
between  the  rows,  between  the  long  lines  of  ash-pits,  went 
the  alley,  where  the  children  played  and  the  women  gossiped 
and  the  men  smoked.  So,  the  actual  conditions  of  living 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  5 

in  the  Bottoms,  that  was  so  well  built  and  that  looked  so 
nice,  were  quite  unsavoury  because  people  must  live  in  the 
kitchen,  and  the  kitchens  opened  on  to  that  nasty  alley  of 
ash-pits. 

Mrs.  Morel  was  not  anxious  to  move  into  the  Bottoms, 
which  was  already  twelve  years  old  and  on  the  downward 
path,  when  she  descended  to  it  from  Bestwood.  But  it  was 
the  best  she  could  do.  Moreover,  she  had  an  end  house  in 
one  of  the  top  blocks,  and  thus  had  only  one  neighbour; 
on  the  other  side  an  extra  strip  of  garden.  And,  having  an 
end  house,  she  enjoyed  a  kind  of  aristocracy  among  the  other 
women  of  the  "between"  houses,  because  her  rent  was  five 
shillings  and  sixpence  instead  of  five  shillings  a  week.  But 
this  superiority  in  station  was  not  much  consolation  to  Mrs. 
Morel. 

She  was  thirty-one  years  old,  and  had  been  married  eight 
years.  A  rather  small  woman,  of  delicate  mould  but  resolute 
bearing,  she  shrank  a  little  from  the  first  contact  with  the 
Bottoms  women.  She  came  down  in  the  July,  and  in  the 
September  expected  her  third  baby. 

Her  husband  was  a  miner.  They  had  only  been  in  their 
new  home  three  weeks  when  the  wakes,  or  fair,  began. 
Morel,  she  knew,  was  sure  to  make  a  holiday  of  it.  He  went 
off  early  on  the  Monday  morning,  day  of  the  fair.  The  two 
children  were  highly  excited.  William,  a  boy  of  seven,  fled 
off  immediately  after  breakfast,  to  prowl  round  the  wakes 
ground,  leaving  Annie,  who  was  only  five,  to  whine  all 
morning  to  go  also.  Mrs.  Morel  did  her  work.  She  scarcely 
knew  her  neighbours  yet,  and  knew  no  one  with  whom  to 
trust  the  little  girl.  So  she  promised  to  take  her  to  the  wakes 
after  dinner. 

William  appeared  at  half-past  twelve.  He  was  a  very 
active  lad,  fair-haired,  with  a  touch  of  the  Dane  or  Nor- 
wegian about  him. 

"Can  I  have  my  dinner,  mother?"  he  cried,  rushing  in 
with  his  cap  on.  "  'Cause  it  begins  at  half -past  one,  the  man 
says  so." 


6 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"You  can  have  your  dinner  as  soon  as  it's  done,"  replied 
the  mother. 

"Isn't  it  done?"  he  cried,  his  blue  eyes  staring  at  her  in 
indignation.  "Then  I'm  goin'  be-out  it." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  It  will  be  done  in  five 
minutes.  It  is  only  half-past  twelve." 

"They'll  be  beginnin',"  the  boy  half  cried,  half  shouted. 

"You  won't  die  if  they  do,"  said  the  mother.  "Besides,  it's 
only  half-past  twelve,  so  you've  a  full  hour." 

The  lad  began  hastily  to  lay  the  table,  and  directly  the 
three  sat  down.  They  were  eating  batter-pudding  and  jam, 
when  the  boy  jumped  off  his  chair  and  stood  perfectly  still. 
Some  distance  away  could  be  heard  the  first  small  braying 
of  a  merry-go-round,  and  the  tooting  of  a  horn.  His  face 
quivered  as  he  looked  at  his  mother. 

"I  told  you!"  he  said,  running  to  the  dresser  for  his 
cap. 

"Take  your  pudding  in  your  hand—and  it's  only  five  past 
one,  so  you  were  wrong— you  haven't  got  your  twopence," 
cried  the  mother  in  a  breath. 

The  boy  came  back,  bitterly  disappointed,  for  his  two- 
pence; then  went  off  without  a  word. 

"I  want  to  go,  I  want  to  go,"  said  Annie,  beginning  to 
cry. 

"Well,  and  you  shall  go,  whining,  wizzening  little  stick!" 
said  the  mother.  And  later  in  the  afternoon  she  trudged  up 
the  hill  under  the  tall  hedge  with  her  child.  The  hay  was 
gathered  from  the  fields,  and  cattle  were  turned  on  to  the 
eddish.  It  was  warm,  peaceful. 

Mrs.  Morel  did  not  like  the  wakes.  There  were  two  sets 
of  horses,  one  going  by  steam,  one  pulled  round  by  a 
pony;  three  organs  were  grinding,  and  there  came  odd 
cracks  of  pistol-shots,  fearful  screeching  of  the  cocoanut 
man's  rattle,  shouts  of  the  Aunt  Sally  man,  screeches  from 
the  peep-show  lady.  The  mother  perceived  her  son  gazing 
enraptured  outside  the  Lion  Wallace  booth,  at  the  pic- 
tures of  this  famous  lion  that  had  killed  a  Negro  and 
maimed  for  life  two  white  men.  She  left  him  alone,  and 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  7 

went  to  get  Annie  a  spin  of  toffee.  Presently  the  lad  stood 
in  front  of  her,  wildly  excited. 

"You  never  said  you  was  coming— isn't  the'  a  lot  of 
things?— that  lion's  killed  three  men— I've  spent  my  tup- 
pence—an' look  here." 

He  pulled  from  his  pocket  two  egg-cups,  with  pink  moss- 
roses  on  them. 

"I  got  these  from  that  stall  where  y'ave  ter  get  them 
marbles  in  them  holes.  An'  I  got  these  two  in  two  goes— 
'aepenny  a  go— they've  got  moss-roses  on,  look  here,  I 
wanted  these." 

She  knew  he  wanted  them  for  her. 

"H'm!"  she  said,  pleased.  "They  are  pretty!" 

"Shall  you  carry  'em,  'cause  I'm  frightened  o'  breakin' 
em? 

He  was  tipful  of  excitement  now  she  had  come,  led  her 
about  the  ground,  showed  her  everything.  Then,  at  the 
peep-show,  she  explained  the  pictures,  in  a  sort  of  story, 
to  which  he  listened  as  if  spellbound.  He  would  not  leave 
her.  All  the  time  he  stuck  close  to  her,  bristling  with  a  small 
boy's  pride  of  her.  For  no  other  woman  looked  such  a  lady 
as  she  did,  in  her  little  black  bonnet  and  her  cloak.  She 
smiled  when  she  saw  women  she  knew.  When  she  was  tired 
she  said  to  her  son: 

"Well,  are  you  coming  now,  or  later?" 

"Are  you  goin'  a'ready?"  he  cried,  his  face  full  ol 
reproach. 

"Already?  It  is  past  four,  /  know." 

"What  are  you  goin'  a'ready  for?"  he  lamented. 

"You  needn't  come  if  you  don't  want,"  she  said. 

And  she  went  slowly  away  with  her  little  girl,  whilst 
her  son  stood  watching  her,  cut  to  the  heart  to  let  her  go, 
and  yet  unable  to  leave  the  wakes.  As  she  crossed  the  open 
ground  in  front  of  the  Moon  and  Stars  she  heard  men 
shouting,  and  smelled  the  beer,  and  hurried  a  little,  thinking 
her  husband  was  probably  in  the  bar. 

At  about  half-past  six  her  son  came  home,  tired  now, 
rather  pale,  and  somewhat  wretched.  He  was  miserable, 


8 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


though  he  did  not  know  it,  because  he  had  let  her  go  alone. 
Since  she  had  gone,  he  had  not  enjoyed  his  wakes. 

"Has  my  dad  been?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  the  mother. 

"He's  helping  to  wait  at  the  Moon  and  Stars.  I  seed  him 
through  that  black  tin  stuff  wi'  holes  in,  on  the  window,  wi' 
his  sleeves  rolled  up." 

"Ha!"  exclaimed  the  mother  shortly.  "He's  got  no  money. 
An'  he'll  be  satisfied  if  he  gets  his  'lowance,  whether  they 
give  him  more  or  not." 

When  the  light  was  fading,  and  Mrs.  Morel  could  see  no 
more  to  sew,  she  rose  and  went  to  the  door.  Everywhere 
was  the  sound  of  excitement,  the  restlessness  of  the  holi- 
day, that  at  last  infected  her.  She  went  out  into  the  side 
garden.  Women  were  coming  home  from  the  wakes,  the 
children  hugging  a  white  lamb  with  green  legs,  or  a  wooden 
horse.  Occasionally  a  man  lurched  past,  almost  as  full  as  he 
could  carry.  Sometimes  a  good  husband  came  along  with 
his  family,  peacefully.  But  usually  the  women  and  children 
were  alone.  The  stay-at-home  mothers  stood  gossiping  at  the 
corners  of  the  alley,  as  the  twilight  sank,  folding  their  arms 
under  their  white  aprons. 

Mrs.  Morel  was  alone,  but  she  was  used  to  it.  Her 
son  and  her  little  girl  slept  upstairs;  so,  it  seemed,  her 
home  was  there  behind  her,  fixed  and  stable.  But  she  felt 
Wretched  with  the  coming  child.  The  world  seemed  a 
dreary  place,  where  nothing  else  would  happen  for  her— 
at  least  until  William  grew  up.  But  for  herself,  nothing 
but  this  dreary  endurance— till  the  children  grew  up.  And 
the  children!  She  could  not  afford  to  have  this  third. 
She  did  not  want  it.  The  father  was  serving  beer  in  a 
public-house,  swilling  himself  drunk.  She  despised  him, 
and  was  tied  to  him.  This  coming  child  was  too  much 
for  her.  If  it  were  not  for  William  and  Annie,  she  was 
sick  of  it,  the  struggle  with  poverty  and  ugliness  and 
meanness. 

She  went  into  the  front  garden,  feeling  too  heavy  to  take 
herself  out,  yet  unable  to  stay  indoors.  The  heat  suffocated 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  9 

her.  And  looking  ahead,  the  prospect  of  her  life  made  her 
feel  as  if  she  were  buried  alive. 

The  front  garden  was  a  small  square  with  a  privet  hedge. 
There  she  stood,  trying  to  soothe  herself  with  the  scent 
of  flowers  and  the  fading,  beautiful  evening.  Opposite  her 
small  gate  was  the  stile  that  led  uphill,  under  the  tall 
hedge,  between  the  burning  glow  of  the  cut  pastures.  The  ) 
sky  overhead  throbbed  and  pulsed  with  light.  The  glow 
sank  quickly  off  the  field;  the  earth  and  the  hedges  smoked 
dusk.  As  it  grew  dark,  a  ruddy  glare  came  out  on  the 
hilltop,  and  out  of  the  glare  the  diminished  commotion,  of 
the  fair. 

Sometimes,  down  the  trough  of  darkness  formed  by  the 
path  under  the  hedges,  men  came  lurching  home.  Ona 
young  man  lapsed  into  a  run  down  the  steep  bit  that  ended 
the  hill,  and  went  with  a  crash  into  the  stile.  Mrs.  Morel 
shuddered.  He  picked  himself  up,  swearing  viciously,  rather 
pathetically,  as  if  he  thought  the  stile  had  wanted  to  hurt 
him. 

She  went  indoors,  wondering  if  things  were  never  going 
to  alter.  She  was  beginning  by  now  to  realize  that  they 
would  not.  She  seemed  so  far  away  from  her  girlhood,  she 
wondered  if  it  were  the  same  person  walking  heavily  up  the 
back  garden  at  the  Bottoms  as  had  run  so  lightly  on  the 
breakwater  at  Sheerness  ten  years  before. 

"What  have  /  to  do  with  it?"  she  said  to  herself. 
"What  have  I  to  do  with  all  this?  Even  the  child  I  am 
going  to  have!  It  doesn't  seem  as  if  /  were  taken  into 
account." 

Sometimes  life  takes  hold  of  one,  carries  the  body  along, 
accomplishes  one's  history,  and  yet  is  not  real,  but  leaves 
oneself  as  it  were  slurred  over. 

"I  wait,"  Mrs.  Aiorel  said  to  herself— "I  wait,  and  what  1 
wait  for  can  never  come." 

Then  she  straightened  the  kitchen,  lit  the  lamp,  mended 
the  fire,  looked  out  the  washing  for  the  next  day,  and 
put  it  to  soak.  After  which  she  sat  down  to  her  sewing. 
Through  the  long  hours  her  needle  flashed  regularly 


IO 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


through  the  stuff.  Occasionally  she  sighed,  moving  to 
relieve  herself.  And  all  the  time  she  was  thinking  how  to 
make  the  most  of  what  she  had,  for  the  children's  sakes. 

At  half -past  eleven  her  husband  came.  His  cheeks  were 
very  red  and  very  shiny  above  his  black  moustache.  His 
head  nodded  slightly.  He  wras  pleased  with  himself. 

"Oh!  Oh!  waitin'  for  me,  lass?  I've  bin  'elpin'  Anthony, 
an'  what's  think  he's  gen  me?  Nowt  b'r  a  lousy  hae'fcrown, 
an'  that's  ivry  penny  " 

"He  thinks  you've  made  the  rest  up  in  beer,"  she  said 
shortly. 

"An'  I  'aven't— that  I  'aven't.  You  b'lieve  me,  I've  'ad  very 
little  this  day,  I  have  an'  all."  His  voice  went  tender.  "Here, 
an'  I  browt  thee  a  bit  o'  brandysnap,  an'  a  cocoanut  for  th' 
children."  He  laid  the  gingerbread  and  the  cocoanut,  a 
hairy  object,  on  the  table.  "Nay,  tha  niver  said  thankyer 
for  nowt  i'  thy  life,  did  ter?" 

As  a  compromise,  she  picked  up  the  cocoanut  and  shook 
it,  to  see  if  it  had  any  milk. 

"It's  a  good  'un,  you  may  back  yer  life  o'  that.  I 
got  it  fra'  Bill  Hodgkisson.  'Bill,'  I  says,  'tha  non 
wants  them  three  nuts,  does  ter?  Arena  ter  for  gi'ein' 
me  one  for  my  bit  of  a  lad  an'  wench?'  'I  ham,  Wal- 
ter, my  lad,'  'e  says;  'ta'e  which  on  'em  ter's  a  mind.' 
An'  so  I  took  one,  an'  thanked  'im.  I  didn't  like  ter 
shake  it  afore  'is  eyes,  but  'e  says,  'Tha'd  better  ma'e 
sure  it's  a  good  un,  Walt.'  An'  so,  yer  see,  I  knowed  it 
was.  He's  a  nice  chap,  is  Bill  Hodgkisson,  Vs  a  nice  chap!" 

"A  man  will  part  with  anything  so  long  as  he's  drunk, 
and  you're  drunk  along  with  him,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Eh,  tha  mucky  little  'ussy,  who's  drunk,  I  sh'd  like 
ter  know? "  said  Morel.  He  was  extraordinarily  pleased  with 
himself,  because  of  his  day's  helping  to  wait  in  the  Moon 
and  Stars.  He  chattered  on. 

Mrs.  Morel,  very  tired,  and  sick  of  his  babble,  went  to 
bed  as  quickly  as  possible,  while  he  raked  the  fire. 

Mrs.  Morel  came  of  a  good  old  burgher  family,  famous 
independents  who  had  fought  with  Colonel  Hutchinson, 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  II 

and  who  remained  stout  Congregationalists.  Her  grand- 
father had  gone  bankrupt  in  the  lace-market  at  a  time  when 
so  many  lace-manufacturers  were  ruined  in  Nottingham. 
Her  father,  George  Coppard,  was  an  engineer— a  large, 
handsome,  haughty  man,  proud  of  his  fair  skin  and  blue 
eyes,  but  more  proud  still  of  his  integrity.  Gertrude  re- 
sembled her  mother  in  her  small  build.  But  her  temper, 
proud  and  unyielding,  she  had  from  the  Coppards. 

George  Coppard  was  bitterly  galled  by  his  own  pov- 
erty. He  became  foreman  of  the  engineers  in  the  dock- 
yard at  Sheerness.  Mrs.  Morel— Gertrude— was  the  second 
daughter.  She  favoured  her  mother,  loved  her  mother 
best  of  all;  but  she  had  the  Coppards'  clear,  defiant 
blue  eyes  and  their  broad  brow.  She  remembered  to  have 
hated  her  father's  overbearing  manner  towards  her  gentle, 
humorcms,  kindly  souled  mother.  She  remembered  run- 
ning over  the  breakwater  at  Sheerness  and  finding  the 
boat.  She  remembered  to  have  been  petted  and  flattered 
by  all  the  men  when  she  had  gone  to  the  dockyard,  for  she 
was  a  delicate,  rather  proud  child.  She  remembered  the 
funny  old  mistress,  whose  assistant  she  had  become,  whom 
she  had  loved  to  help  in  the  private  school.  And  she  still 
had  the  Bible  that  John  Field  had  given  her.  She  used 
to  walk  home  from  chapel  with  John  Field  when  she  was 
nineteen.  He  was  the  son  of  a  well-to-do  tradesman,  had 
been  to  college  in  London,  and  was  to  devote  himself  to 
business. 

She  could  always  recall  in  detail  a  September  Sunday 
afternoon,  when  they  had  sat  under  the  vine  at  the  back 
of  her  father's  house.  The  sun  came  through  the  chinks  in 
the  vine-leaves  and  made  beautiful  patterns,  like  a  lace 
scarf,  falling  on  her  and  on  him.  Some  of  the  leaves  were 
clean  yellow,  like  yellow  flat  flowers. 

"Now  sit  still,"  he  had  cried.  "Now  your  hair,  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  like!  It's  as  bright  as  copper  and  gold,  as 
red  as  burnt  copper,  and  it  has  gold  threads  where  the  sun 
shines  on  it.  Fancy  their  saying  it's  brown.  Your  mothe* 
calls  it  mouse-colour." 


12 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


She  had  met  his  brilliant  eyes,  but  her  clear  face  scarcely 
showed  the  elation  which  rose  within  her. 

"But  you  say  you  don't  like  business,"  she  pursued. 
"I  don't.  I  hate  it!"  he  cried  hotly. 

"And  you  would  like  to  go  into  the  ministry,"  she  half 
implored. 

"I  should.  I  should  love  it,  if  I  thought  I  could  make  a 
first-rate  preacher." 

"Then  why  don't  you— why  don't  you?"  Her  voice  rang 
with  defiance.  "If  /  were  a  man,  nothing  would  stop  me." 

She  held  her  head  erect.  He  was  rather  timid  before 
her. 

"But  my  father's  so  stiff-necked.  He  means  to  put  me 
into  the  business,  and  I  know  he'll  do  it." 

"But  if  you're  a  man}"  she  had  cried. 

"Being  a  man  isn't  everything,"  he  replied,  frowning  with 
puzzled  helplessness. 

Now,  as  she  moved  about  her  work  at  the  Bottoms,  with 
some  experience  of  what  being  a  man  meant,  she  knew  that 
it  was  not  everything. 

At  twenty,  owing  to  her  health,  she  had  left  Sheerness. 
Her  father  had  retired  home  to  Nottingham.  John 
Field's  father  had  been  ruined;  the  son  had  gone  as  a 
teacher  in  Norwood.  She  did  not  hear  of  him  until,  two 
years  later,  she  made  determined  inquiry.  He  had  mar- 
ried his  landlady,  a  woman  of  forty,  a  widow  with 
property. 

And  still  Mrs.  Morel  preserved  John  Field's  Bible.  She 
did  not  now  believe  him  to  be—  Well,  she  understood 
pretty  well  what  he  might  or  might  not  have  been.  So  she 
preserved  his  Bible,  and  kept  his  memory  intact  in  her  heart, 
for  her  own  sake.  To  her  dying  day,  for  thirty-five  years, 
she  did  not  speak  of  him. 

When  she  was  twenty-three  years  old,  she  met,  at  a 
Christmas  party,  a  young  man  from  the  Erewash  Valley. 
Morel  was  then  twenty-seven  years  old.  He  was  well  set- 
up, erect,  and  very  smart.  He  had  wavy  black  hair  that 
shone  again,  and  a  vigorous  black  beard  that  had  never 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  I J 

been  shaved.  His  cheeks  were  ruddy,  and  his  red,  moist 
mouth  was  noticeable  because  he  laughed  so  often  and  so 
heartily.  He  had  that  rare  thing,  a  rich,  ringing  laugh. 
Gertrude  Coppard  had  watched  him,  fascinated.  He  was 
so  full  of  colour  and  animation,  his  voice  ran  so  easily  into 
comic  grotesque,  he  was  so  ready  and  so  pleasant  with 
everybody.  Her  own  father  had  a  rich  fund  of  humour, 
but  it  was  satiric.  This  man's  was  different:  soft,  non- 
intellectual,  warm,  a  kind  of  gambolling. 

She  herself  was  opposite.  She  had  a  curious,  receptive 
mind,  which  found  much  pleasure  and  amusement  in  listen- 
ing to  other  folk.  She  was  clever  in  leading  folk  on  to  talk. 
She  loved  ideas,  and  was  considered  very  intellectual.  What 
she  liked  most  of  all  was  an  argument  on  religion  or  philos- 
ophy or  politics  with  some  educated  man.  This  she  did  not 
often  enjoy.  So  she  always  had  people  teil  her  about  them' 
selves,  finding  her  pleasure  so. 

In  her  person  she  was  rather  small  and  delicate,  with  a 
large  brow,  and  dropping  bunches  of  brown  silk  curls. 
Her  blue  eyes  were  very  straight,  honest,  and  searching. 
She  had  the  beautiful  hands  of  the  Coppards.  Her  dress 
was  always  subdued.  She  wore  dark  blue  silk,  with  a  pe- 
culiar silver  chain  of  silver  scallops.  This,  and  a  heavy 
brooch  of  twisted  gold,  was  her  only  ornament.  She  waj, 
still  perfectly  intact,  deeply  religious,  and  full  of  beautiful 
candour. 

Walter  Morel  seemed  melted  away  before  her.  She  was 
to  the  miner  that  thing  of  mystery  and  fascination,  a 
lady.  When  she  spoke  to  him,  it  was  with  a  southern 
pronunciation  and  a  purity  of  English  which  thrilled  him 
to  hear.  She  watched  him.  He  danced  well,  as  if  it  were 
natural  and  joyous  in  him  to  dance.  His  grandfather  was 
a  French  refugee  who  had  married  an  English  barmaid— 
if  it  had  been  a  marriage.  Gertrude  Coppard  watched  the 
young  miner  as  he  danced,  a  certain  subtle  exultation  like 
glamour  in  his  movement,  and  his  face  the  flower  of  his 
body,  ruddy,  with  tumbled  black  hair,  and  laughing  alike 
whatever  partner  he  bowed  above.  She  thought  him  rather 


14  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

wonderful,  never  having  met  anyone  like  him.  Her  father 
was  to  her  the  type  of  all  men.  And  George  Coppard, 
proud  in  his  bearing,  handsome,  and  rather  bitter;  who 
preferred  theology  in  reading,  and  who  drew  near  in  sym- 
pathy only  to  one  man,  the  Apostle  Paul;  who  was  harsh 
i  in  government,  and  in  familiarity  ironic;  who  ignored  all 
sensuous  pleasure;— he  was  very  different  from  the  miner. 
Gertrude  herself  was  rather  contemptuous  of  dancing;  she 
had  not  the  slightest  inclination  towards  that  accomplish- 
ment, and  had  never  learned  even  a  Roger  de  Coverley. 
She  was  a  puritan,  like  her  father,  high-minded,  and  really 
stern.  Therefore  the  dusky,  golden  softness  of  this  man's 
sensuous  flame  of  life,  that  flowed  off  his  flesh  like  the 
flame  from  a  candle,  not  baffled  and  gripped  into  incan- 
descence by  thought  and  spirit  as  her  life  was,  seemed 
to  her  something  wonderful,  beyond  her. 

He  came  and  bowed  above  her.  A  warmth  radiated 
through  her  as  if  she  had  drunk  wine. 

"Now  do  come  and  have  this  one  wiV  me,"  he  said 
caressively.  "It's  easy,  you  know.  I'm  pining  to  see  you 
dance." 

She  had  told  him  before  she  could  not  dance.  She  glanced 
at  his  humility  and  smiled.  Her  smile  was  very  beautiful.  It 
moved  the  man  so  that  he  forgot  everything. 

"No,  I  won't  dance,"  she  said  softly.  Her  words  came 
clean  and  ringing. 

Not  knowing  what  he  was  doing— he  often  did  the 
right  thing  by  instinct— he  sat  beside  her,  inclining  rev- 
erentially. 

"But  you  mustn't  miss  your  dance,"  she  reproved. 
"Nay,  I  don't  want  to  dance  that— it's  not  one  as  I  care 
about." 

"Yet  you  invited  me  to  it." 

He  laughed  very  heartily  at  this. 

"I  never  thought  o'  that.  Tha'rt  not  long  in  taking  the 
curl  out  of  me." 

It  was  her  turn  to  laugh  quickly. 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  Li?2  OF  THE  MORELS  1 5 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you'd  come  much  uncurled,"  she 
said. 

"I'm  like  a  pig's  tail,  I  curl  because  I  canna  help  it,"  he 
laughed,  rather  boisterously. 

"And  you  are  a  miner!"  she  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"Yes.  I  went  down  when  I  was  ten." 

She  looked  at  him  in  wondering  dismay. 

"When  you  were  ten!  And  wasn't  it  very  hard?"  she 
asked. 

"You  soon  get  used  to  it.  You  live  like  th'  mice,  an'  you 
pop  out  at  night  to  see  what's  going  on." 

"It  makes  me  feel  blind,"  she  frowned. 

"Like  a  moudiwarp!"  he  laughed.  "Yi,  an'  there's  some 
chaps  as  does  go  round  like  moudiwarps."  He  thrust  his 
face  forward  in  the  blind,  snout-like  way  of  a  mole,  seem- 
ing to  sniff  and  peer  for  direction.  "They  dun  though!"  he 
protested  naively.  "Tha  niver  seed  such  a  way  they  get  in. 
But  tha  mun  let  me  ta'e  thee  down  some  time,  an'  tha  can 
see  for  thysen." 

She  looked  at  him,  startled.  This  was  a  new  tract  of  life 
suddenly  opened  before  her.  She  realized  the  life  of  the 
miners,  hundreds  of  them  toiling  below  earth  and  coming 
up  at  evening.  He  seemed  to  her  noble.  He  risked  his  life 
daily,  and  with  gaiety.  She  looked  at  him,  with  a  touch  of 
appeal  in  her  pure  humility. 

"Shouldn't  ter  like  it?"  he  asked  tenderly.  "  'Appen  not, 
it  'ud  dirty  thee." 

She  had  never  been  "thee'd"  and  "thou'd"  before. 

The  next  Christmas  they  were  married,  and  for  three 
months  she  was  perfectly  happy:  for  six  months  she  was 
very  happy. 

He  had  signed  the  pledge,  and  wore  the  blue  ribbon  of 
a  teetotaller:  he  was  nothing  if  not  showy.  They  lived,  she 
thought,  in  his  own  house.  It  was  small,  but  convenient 
enough,  and  quite  nicely  furnished,  with  solid,  worthy  stuff 
that  suited  her  honest  soul.  The  women,  her  neighbours, 
were  rather  foreign  to  her,  and  Morel's  mother  and  sisters 


J  6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

were  apt  to  sneer  at  her  ladylike  ways.  But  she  could  per- 
fectly well  live  by  herself,  so  long  as  she  had  her  husband 
close. 

Sometimes,  when  she  herself  wearied  of  love-talk,  she 
tried  to  open  her  heart  seriously  to  him.  She  saw  him 
listen  deferentially,  but  without  understanding.  This  killed 
her  efforts  at  a  finer  intimacy,  and  she  had  flashes  of  fear. 
Sometimes  he  was  restless  of  an  evening:  it  was  not  enough 
for  him  just  to  be  near  her,  she  realized.  She  was  glad  when 
he  set  himself  to  little  jobs. 

He  was  a  remarkably  handy  man— could  make  or  mend 
anything.  So  she  would  say: 

"I  do  like  that  coal-rake  of  your  mother's— it  is  small 
and  natty." 

"Does  ter,  my  wench?  Well,  I  made  that,  so  I  can  make 
thee  one." 

"What!  why  it's  a  steel  one!" 

"An'  what  if  it  is!  Tha  s'lt  ha'e  one  very  similar,  if  not 
exactly  same." 

She  did  not  mind  the  mess,  nor  the  hammering  and  noise. 
He  was  busy  and  happy. 

But  in  the  seventh  month,  when  she  was  brushing  his 
Sunday  coat,  she  felt  papers  in  the  breast-pocket,  and, 
seized  with  a  sudden  curiosity,  took  them  out  to  read.  He 
very  rarely  wore  the  frock-coat  he  was  married  in:  and  it 
had  not  occurred  to  her  before  to  feel  curious  concerning 
the  papers.  They  were  the  bills  of  the  household  furniture, 
still  unpaid. 

"Look  here,"  she  said  at  night,  after  he  was  washed  and 
had  had  his  dinner.  "I  found  these  in  the  pocket  of  your 
wedding-coat.  Haven't  you  settled  the  bills  yet?" 

"No.  I  haven't  had  a  chance." 

"But  you  told  me  all  was  paid.  I  had  better  go  into 
Nottingham  on  Saturday  and  settle  them.  I  don't  like  sit- 
ting on  another  man's  chairs  and  eating  from  an  unpaid 
table." 

He  did  not  answer. 

"I  can  have  your  bank-book,  can't  I?" 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  IJ 

"Tha  can  ha'e  it,  for  what  good  it'll  be  to  thee." 

"I  thought—"  she  began.  He  had  told  her  he  had  a 
good  bit  of  money  left  over.  But  she  realized  it  was  no 
use  asking  questions.  She  sat  rigid  with  bitterness  and 
indignation. 

The  next  day  she  went  down  to  see  his  mother. 
"Didn't   you   buy   the   furniture    for   Walter?"  she 
asked. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  tartly  retorted  the  elder  woman. 
"And  how  much  did  he  give  you  to  pay  for  it?" 
The  elder  woman  was  stung  with  fine  indignation. 
"Eighty  pound,  if  you're  so  keen  on  knowin',"  she 
replied. 

"Eighty  pounds!  But  there  are  forty-two  pounds  still 
owing!" 

"I  can't  help  that." 

"But  where  has  it  all  gone?" 

"You'll  find  all  the  papers,  I  think,  if  you  look— beside* 
ten  pound  as  he  owed  me,  an'  six  pound  as  the  wedding  cost 
down  here." 

"Six  pounds!"  echoed  Gertrude  Morel.  It  seemed  to  her 
monstrous  that,  after  her  own  father  had  paid  so  heavily 
for  her  wedding,  six  pounds  more  should  have  been  squan- 
dered in  eating  and  drinking  at  Walter's  parents'  house,  at 
his  expense. 

"And  how  much  has  he  sunk  in  his  houses?"  she  asked, 
"His  houses— which  houses?" 

Gertrude  Morel  went  white  to  the  lips.  He  had  told  her 
the  house  he  lived  in,  and  the  next  one,  were  his  own. 

"I  thought  the  house  we  live  in—"  she  began. 

"They're  my  houses,  those  two,"  said  the  mother-in-law. 
"And  not  clear  either.  It's  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  keep  the 
mortgage  interest  paid." 

Gertrude  sat  white  and  silent.  She  was  her  fathej 
now. 

"Then  we  ought  to  be  paying  you  rent,"  she  said 
coldly. 

"Walter  is  paying  me  rent,"  replied  the  mother. 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"And  what  rent?"  asked  Gertrude. 

"Six-and-six  a  week,"  retorted  the  mother. 

It  was  more  than  the  house  was  worth.  Gertrude  held  her 
head  erect,  looked  straight  before  her. 

"It  is  lucky  to  be  you,"  said  the  elder  woman,  bitingly, 
"to  have  a  husband  as  takes  all  the  worry  of  the  money, 
and  leaves  you  a  free  hand." 

The  young  wife  was  silent. 

She  said  very  little  to  her  husband,  but  her  manner  had 
changed  towards  him.  Something  in  her  proud,  honourable 
soul  had  crystallized  out  hard  as  rock. 

When  October  came  in,  she  thought  only  of  Christmas. 
Two  years  ago,  at  Christmas,  she  had  met  him.  Last  Christ- 
mas she  had  married  him.  This  Christmas  she  would  bear 
him  a  child. 

"You  don't  dance  yourself,  do  you,  missis?"  asked  her 
nearest  neighbour,  in  October,  when  there  was  great  talk 
of  opening  a  dancing-class  over  the  Brick  and  Tile  Inn  at 
Bestwood. 

"No— I  never  had  the  least  inclination  to,"  Mrs.  Morel 
replied. 

"Fancy!  An'  how  funny  as  you  should  ha'  married 
your  Mester.  You  know  he's  quite  a  famous  one  for 
dancing." 

"I  didn't  know  he  was  famous,"  laughed  Mrs.  Morel. 
"Yea,  he  is  though!  Why,  he  run  that  dancing-class  in 
the  Miners'  Arms  club-room  for  over  five  year." 
"Did  he?" 

"Yes,  he  did."  The  other  woman  was  defiant.  "An'  it  was 
thronged  every  Tuesday,  and  Thursday,  an'  Sat'day— an' 
there  was  carryin's-on,  accordin'  to  all  accounts." 

This  kind  of  thing  was  gall  and  bitterness  to  Mrs.  Morel, 
and  she  had  a  fair  share  of  it.  The  women  did  not  spare  her, 
at  first;  for  she  was  superior,  though  she  could  not  help  it. 

He  began  to  be  rather  late  in  coming  home. 

"They're  working  very  late  now  aren't  they?"  she  said 
to  her  washer-woman. 

"No  later  than  they  allers  do,  I  don't  think.  But  they 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  1 9 

stop  to  have  their  pint  at  Ellen's,  an'  they  get  talking  an' 
there  you  are!  Dinner  stone  cold— an'  it  serves  'em 
right." 

"But- Mr.  Morel  does  not  take  any  drink." 

The  woman  dropped  the  clothes,  looked  at  Mrs.  Morel, 
then  went  on  with  her  work,  saying  nothing. 

Gertrude  Morel  was  very  ill  when  the  boy  was  born. 
Morel  was  good  to  her,  as  good  as  gold.  But  she  felt  very 
lonely,  miles  away  from  her  own  people.  She  felt  lonely 
with  him  now,  and  his  presence  only  made  it  more  intense. 

The  boy  was  small  and  frail  at  first,  but  he  came  on 
quickly.  He  was  a  beautiful  child,  with  dark  gold  ringlets, 
and  dark-blue  eyes  which  changed  gradually  to  a  clear  grey. 
His  mother  loved  him  passionately.  He  came  just  when  her 
own  bitterness  of  disillusion  was  hardest  to  bear;  when 
her  faith  in  life  was  shaken,  and  her  soul  felt  dreary  and 
lonely.  She  made  much  of  the  child,  and  the  father  was 
jealous. 

At  last  Mrs.  Morel  despised  her  husband.  She  turned  to 
the  child;  she  turned  from  the  father.  He  had  begun  to 
neglect  her;  the  novelty  of  his  own  home  was  gone.  He  had 
no  grit,  she  said  bitterly  to  herself.  What  he  felt  just  at  the 
minute,  that  was  all  to  him.  He  could  not  abide  by  anything. 
There  was  nothing  at  the  back  of  all  his  show. 

There  began  a  battle  between  the  husband  and  wife— a 
fearful,  bloody  battle  that  ended  only  with  the  death  of  one. 
She  fought  to  make  him  undertake  his  own  responsibilities, 
to  make  him  fulfil  his  obligations.  But  he  was  too  different 
from  her.  His  nature  was  purely  sensuous,  and  she  strove  to 
make  him  moral,  religious.  She  tried  to  force  him  to  face 
things.  He  could  not  endure  it— it  drove  him  out  of  his 
mind. 

While  the  baby  was  still  tiny,  the  father's  temper  had  be- 
come so  irritable  that  it  was  not  to  be  trusted.  The  child 
had  only  to  give  a  little  trouble  when  the  man  began  to 
bully.  A  little  more,  and  the  hard  hands  of  the  collier  hit 
the  baby.  Then  Mrs.  Morel  loathed  her  husband,  loathed 
him  for  days;  and  he  went  out  and  drank;  and  she  cared 


to 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


very  little  what  he  did.  Only,  on  his  return,  she  scathed  him 
with  her  satire. 

The  estrangement  between  them  caused  him,  knowingly 
or  unknowingly,  grossly  to  offend  her  where  he  would  not 
have  done. 

William  was  only  one  year  old,  and  his  mother  was  proud 
of  him,  he  was  so  pretty.  She  was  not  well  off  now,  but  her 
sisters  kept  the  boy  in  clothes.  Then,  with  his  little  white  hat 
curled  with  an  ostrich  feather,  and  his  white  coat,  he  was 
a  joy  to  her,  the  twining  wisps  of  hair  clustering  round  his 
head.  Mrs.  Morel  lay  listening,  one  Sunday  morning,  to  the 
chatter  of  the  father  and  child  downstairs.  Then  she  dozed 
off.  When  she  came  downstairs,  a  great  fire  glowed  in  the 
grate,  the  room  was  hot,  the  breakfast  was  roughly  laid, 
and  seated  in  his  armchair,  against  the  chimney-piece,  sat 
Morel,  rather  timid;  and  standing  between  his  legs,  the  child 
—cropped  like  a  sheep,  with  such  an  odd  round  poll— looking 
wondering  at  her;  and  on  a  newspaper  spread  out  upon  the 
hearthrug,  a  myriad  of  crescent-shaped  curls,  like  the  petals 
of  a  marigold  scattered  in  the  reddening  firelight. 

Mrs.  Morel  stood  still.  It  was  her  first  baby.  She  went  very 
white,  and  was  unable  to  speak. 

"What  dost  think  o'  'im?"  Morel  laughed  uneasily. 

She  gripped  her  two  fists,  lifted  them,  and  came  forward. 
Morel  shrank  back. 

"I  could  kill  you,  I  could!"  she  said.  She  choked  with  rage, 
her  two  fists  uplifted. 

"Yer  non  want  ter  make  a  wench  on  'im,"  Morel  said,  in  a 
frightened  tone,  bending  his  head  to  shield  his  eyes  from 
hers.  His  attempt  at  laughter  had  vanished. 

The  mother  looked  down  at  the  jagged,  close-clipped 
head  of  her  child.  She  put  her  hands  on  his  hair,  and  stroked 
md  fondled  his  head. 

"Oh— my  boy!"  she  faltered.  Her  lip  trembled,  her  face 
broke,  and,  snatching  up  the  child,  she  buried  her  face  in  his 
shoulder  and  cried  painfully.  She  was  one  of  those  women 
who  cannot  cry;  whom  it  hurts  as  it  hurts  a  man.  It  was 
like  ripping  something  out  of  her,  her  sobbing. 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  21 

Morel  sat  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  hands  gripped 
together  till  the  knuckles  were  white.  He  gazed  in  the  fire, 
feeling  almost  stunned,  as  if  he  could  not  breathe. 

Presently  she  came  to  an  end,  soothed  the  child  and 
cleared  away  the  breakfast-table.  She  left  the  newspaper, 
littered  with  curls,  spread  upon  the  hearthrug.  At  last  her 
husband  gathered  it  up  and  put  it  at  the  back  of  the  fire. 
She  went  about  her  work  with  closed  mouth,  and  very  quiet. 
Morel  was  subdued.  He  crept  about  wretchedly,  and  his 
meals  were  a  misery  that  day.  She  spoke  to  him  civilly,  and 
never  alluded  to  what  he  had  done.  But  he  felt  something 
final  had  happened. 

Afterwards  she  said  she  had  been  silly,  that  the  boy's  hair 
would  have  had  to  be  cut,  sooner  or  later.  In  the  end,  she 
even  brought  herself  to  say  to  her  husband  it  was  just  as 
well  he  had  played  barber  when  he  did.  But  she  knew,  and 
Morel  knew,  that  that  act  had  caused  something  momentous 
to  take  place  in  her  soul.  She  remembered  the  scene  all  her 
life,  as  one  in  which  she  had  suffered  the  most  intensely. 

This  act  of  masculine  clumsiness  was  the  spear  through 
the  side  of  her  love  for  Morel.  Before,  while  she  had  striven 
against  him  bitterly,  she  had  fretted  after  him,  as  if  he  had 
gone  astray  from  her.  Now  she  ceased  to  fret  for  his  love: 
he  was  an  outsider  to  her.  This  made  life  much  more 
bearable. 

Nevertheless,  she  still  continued  to  strive  with  him.  She 
still  had  her  high  moral  sense,  inherited  from  generations  of 
Puritans.  It  was  now  a  religious  instinct,  and  she  was  almost 
a  fanatic  with  him,  because  she  loved  him,  or  had  loved  him. 
If  he  sinned,  she  tortured  him.  If  he  drank,  and  lied,  was 
often  a  poltroon,  sometimes  a  knave,  she  wielded  the  lash 
unmercifully. 

The  pity  was,  she  was  too  much  his  opposite.  She  could 
not  be  content  with  the  little  he  might  be;  she  would  have 
him  the  much  that  he  ought  to  be.  So,  in  seeking  to  make 
him  nobler  than  he  could  be,  she  destroyed  him.  She  injured 
and  hurt  and  scarred  herself,  but  she  lost  none  of  her  worth. 
She  also  had  the  children. 


22 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


He  drank  rather  heavily,  though  not  more  than  many 
miners,  and  always  beer,  so  that  whilst  his  health  was  af-  J 
fected,  it  was  never  injured.  The  week-end  was  his  chief 
carouse.  He  sat  in  the  Miners'  Arms  until  turning-out  time 
every  Friday,  every  Saturday,  and  every  Sunday  evening. 
On  Monday  and  Tuesday  he  had  to  get  up  and  reluctantly 
i  leave  towards  ten  o'clock.  Sometimes  he  stayed  at  home  on 
Wednesday  and  Thursday  evenings,  or  was  only  out  for  an 
hour.  He  practically  never  had  to  miss  work  owing  to  his 
drinking. 

But  although  he  was  very  steady  at  work,  his  wages  fell 
off.  He  was  blab-mouthed,  a  tongue-wagger.  Authority  was 
hateful  to  him,  therefore  he  could  only  abuse  the  pit-  j 
managers.  He  would  say,  in  the  Palmerston: 

"Th'  gaffer  come  down  to  our  stal  this  morning,  an'  'e 
says,  'You  know,  Walter,  this  'ere'll  not  do.  What  about 
these  props?'  An'  I  says  to  him,  'Why,  what  art  talkin' 
about?  What  d'st  mean  about  th'  props?'  'It'll  never  do, 
this  'ere,'  'e  says.  'You'll  be  havin'  th'  roof  in,  one  o'  these 
days.'  An'  I  says,  'Tha'd  better  stan'  on  a  bit  o'  clunch,  then, 
an'  hold  it  up  wi'  thy  'ead.'  So  'e  wor  that  mad,  'e  cossed  an' 
'e  swore,  an'  t'other  chaps  they  did  laugh."  Morel  was  a 
good  mimic.  He  imitated  the  manager's  fat,  squeaky  voice, 
with  its  attempt  at  good  English. 

"  'I  shan't  have  it,  Walter.  Who  knows  more  about  it,  me 
or  you?'  So  I  says,  'I've  niver  fun  out  how  much  tha'  knows, 
Alfred.  It'll  'appen  carry  thee  ter  bed  an'  back.'  " 

So  Morei  would  go  on  to  the  amusement  of  his  boon  com- 
panions. And  some  of  this  would  be  true.  The  pit-manager 
was  not  an  educated  man.  He  had  been  a  boy  along  with 
Morel,  so  that,  while  the  two  disliked  each  other,  they  more 
or  less  took  each  other  for  granted.  But  Alfred  Charlesworth 
did  not  forgive  the  butty  these  public-house  sayings.  Con- 
sequently, although  Morel  was  a  good  miner,  sometimes 
earning  as  much  as  five  pounds  a  week  when  he  married,  he 
came  gradually  to  have  worse  and  worse  stalls,  where  the 
coal  was  thin,  and  hard  to  get,  and  unprofitable. 

Also,  in  summer,  the  pits  are  slack.  Often,  on  bright  sunny 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  23 

mornings,  the  men  are  seen  trooping  home  again  at  ten, 
eleven,  or  twelve  o'clock.  No  empty  trucks  stand  at  the  pit  • 
mouth.  The  women  on  the  hillside  look  across  as  they  shake 
the  hearthrug  against  the  fence,  and  count  the  waggons  the 
engine  is  taking  along  the  line  up  the  valley.  And  the  chil- 
dren, as  they  come  from  school  at  dinner-time,  looking 
down  the  fields  and  seeing  the  wheels  on  the  headstocks 
standing,  say: 

"Minton's  knocked  off.  My  dad'll  be  at  home." 

And  there  is  a  sort  of  shadow  over  all,  women  and  chil- 
dren and  men,  because  money  will  be  short  at  the  end  of 
the  week. 

Morel  was  supposed  to  give  his  wife  thirty  shillings  a 
week,  to  provide  everything—rent,  food,  clothes,  clubs,  in- 
surance, doctors.  Occasionally,  if  he  were  flush,  he  gave 
her  thirty-five.  But  these  occasions  by  no  means  balanced 
those  when  he  gave  her  twenty-five.  In  winter,  with  a  de- 
cent stall,  the  miner  might  earn  fifty  or  fifty-five  shillings  a 
week  Then  he  was  happy.  On  Friday  night,  Saturday,  and 
Sunday,  he  spent  royally,  getting  rid  of  his  sovereign  or 
thereabouts.  And  out  of  so  much,  he  scarcely  spared  the 
children  an  extra  penny  or  bought  them  a  pound  of  apples. 
It  all  went  in  drink.  In  the  bad  times,  matters  were  more 
worrying,  but  he  was  not  so  often  drunk,  so  that  Mrs.  Morel 
used  to  say: 

"I'm  not  sure  I  wouldn't  rather  be  short,  for  when  he's 
flush,  there  isn't  a  minute  of  peace." 

If  he  earned  forty  shillings  he  kept  ten;  from  thirty-five  he 
kept  five;  from  thirty-two  he  kept  four;  from  twenty-eight 
he  kept  three;  from  twenty-four  he  kept  two;  from  twenty 
he  kept  one-and-six;  from  eighteen  he  kept  a  shilling;  from 
sixteen  he  kept  sixpence.  He  never  saved  a  penny,  and  he 
gave  his  wife  no  opportunity  of  saving;  instead,  she  had 
occasionally  to  pay  his  debts;  not  public-house  debts,  for 
those  never  were  passed  on  to  the  women,  but  debts  when 
he  had  bought  a  canary,  or  a  fancy  walking-stick. 

At  the  wakes  time,  Morel  was  working  badly,  and  Mrs. 
Morel  was  trying  to  save  against  her  confinement.  So  it 


24  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

galled  her  bitterly  to  think  he  should  be  out  taking  his 
pleasure  and  spending  money,  whilst  she  remained  at  home, 
harassed.  There  were  two  days'  holiday.  On  the  Tuesday 
morning  Morel  rose  early.  He  was  in  good  spirits.  Quite 
early,  before  six  o'clock,  she  heard  him  whistling  away  to 
himself  downstairs.  He  had  a  pleasant  way  of  whistling, 
lively  and  musical.  He  nearly  always  whistled  hymns.  He 
had  been  a  choir-boy  with  a  beautiful  voice,  and  had  taken 
solos  in  Southwell  cathedral.  His  morning  whistling  alone 
betrayed  it. 

His  wife  lay  listening  to  him  tinkering  away  in  the  gar- 
den, his  whistling  ringing  out  as  he  sawed  and  hammered 
away.  It  always  gave  her  a  sense  of  warmth  and  peace  to 
hear  him  thus  as  she  lay  in  bed,  the  children  not  yet  awake, 
in  the  bright  early  morning,  happy  in  his  man's  fashion. 

At  nine  o'clock,  while  the  children  with  bare  legs  and 
feet  were  sitting  playing  on  the  sofa,  and  the  mother  was 
washing  up,  he  came  in  from  his  carpentry,  his  sleeves 
rolled  up,  his  waistcoat  hanging  open.  He  was  still  a  good- 
looking  man,  with  black,  wavy  hair,  and  a  large  black 
moustache.  His  face  was  perhaps  too  much  inflamed,  and 
there  was  about  him  a  look  almost  of  peevishness.  But  now 
he  was  jolly.  He  went  straight  to  the  sink  where  his  wife 
was  washing  up. 

"What,  are  thee  there!"  he  said  boisterously.  "Sluther  off 
an'  let  me  wesh  mysen." 

"You  may  wait  till  I've  finished,"  said  his  wife. 

"Oh,  mun  I?  An'  what  if  I  shonna?" 

This  good-humoured  threat  amused  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Then  you  can  go  and  wash  yourself  in  the  soft-water 
tub." 

"Ha!  I  can  an'  a',  tha  mucky  little  'ussy." 

With  which  he  stood  watching  her  a  moment,  then  went 
away  to  wait  for  her. 

When  he  chose  he  could  still  make  himself  again  a  real 
gallant.  Usually  he  preferred  to  go  out  with  a  scarf  round 
his  neck.  Now,  however,  he  made  a  toilet.  There  seemed  so 
much  gusto  in  the  way  he  puffed  and  swilled  as  he  washed 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  25 

himself,  so  much  alacrity  with  which  he  hurried  to  the 
mirror  in  the  kitchen,  and,  bending  because  it  was  too  low 
for  him,  scrupulously  parted  his  wet  black  hair,  that  it 
irritated  Mrs.  Morel.  He  put  on  a  turn-down  collar,  a  black 
bow,  and  wore  his  Sunday  tail-coat.  As  such,  he  looked 
spruce,  and  what  his  clothes  would  not  do,  his  instinct  foj 
making  the  most  of  his  good  looks  would. 

At  half-past  nine  Jerry  Purdy  came  to  call  for  his  pal. 
Jerry  was  Morel's  bosom  friend,  and  Mrs.  Morel  disliked 
him.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  rather  foxy  face,  thn 
kind  of  face  that  seems  to  lack  eyelashes.  He  walked  with  7, 
stiff,  brittle  dignity,  as  if  his  head  were  on  a  wooden  spring. 
His  nature  was  cold  and  shrewd.  Generous  where  he  in- 
tended to  be  generous,  he  seemed  to  be  very  fond  of  Morel? 
and  more  or  less  to  take  charge  of  him. 

Mrs.  Morel  hated  him.  She  had  known  his  wife,  who  had 
died  of  consumption,  and  who  had,  at  the  end,  conceived 
such  a  violent  dislike  of  her  husband,  that  if  he  came  into  her 
room  it  caused  her  haemorrhage.  None  of  which  Jerry  had 
seemed  to  mind.  And  now  his  eldest  daughter,  a  girl  of 
fifteen,  kept  a  poor  house  for  him,  and  looked  after  the  two 
younger  children. 

"A  mean,  wizzen-hearted  stick!"  Mrs.  Morel  said  of  him. 

"I've  never  known  Jerry  mean  in  my  life,"  protested 
Morel.  "A  opener-handed  and  more  freer  chap  you  couldn't 
find  anywhere,  accordin'  to  my  knowledge." 

"Open-handed  to  you,"  retorted  Mrs.  Morel.  "But  his  fist 
is  shut  tight  enough  to  his  children,  poor  things." 

"Poor  things!  And  what  for  are  they  poor  things,  I  should 
like  to  know? " 

But  Mrs.  Morel  would  not  be  appeased  on  Jerry's  score. 

The  subject  of  argument  was  seen,  craning  his  thin  neck 
over  the  scullery  curtain.  He  caught  Mrs.  Morel's  eye. 

"Mornin',  missis!  Mester  in?" 

"Yes-he  is." 

Jerry  entered  unasked,  and  stood  by  the  kitchen  doorway. 
He  was  not  invited  to  sit  down,  but  stood  there,  coolly 
asserting  the  rights  of  men  and  husbands. 


26 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"A  nice  day,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Morel. 
"Yes." 

"Grand  out  this  morning— grand  for  a  walk." 
"Do  you  mean  yoiCre  going  for  a  walk?"  she  asked. 
"Yes.  We  mean  walkin'  to  Nottingham,"  he  replied. 
"H'm!" 

The  two  men  greeted  each  other,  both  glad:  Jerry,  how- 
ever, full  of  assurance,  Morel  rather  subdued,  afraid  to 
seem  too  jubilant  in  presence  of  his  wife.  But  he  laced  his 
boots  quickly,  with  spirit.  They  were  going  for  a  ten-mile 
walk  across  the  fields  to  Nottingham.  Climbing  the  hillside 
from  the  Bottoms,  they  mounted  gaily  into  the  morning. 
At  the  Moon  and  Stars  they  had  their  first  drink,  then  on 
to  the  Old  Spot.  Then  a  long  five  miles  of  drought  to  carry 
them  into  Bulwell  to  a  glorious  pint  of  bitter.  But  they 
stayed  in  a  field  with  some  haymakers  whose  gallon  bottle 
was  full,  so  that,  when  they  came  in  sight  of  the  city,  Morel 
was  sleepy.  The  town  spread  upwards  before  them,  smoking 
vaguely  in  the  midday  glare,  fridging  rhe  crest  away  to  the 
south  with  spires  and  factory  bulks  &nd  chimneys.  In  the 
last  field  Morel  lay  down  under  an  oak-tree  and  slept  soundly 
for  over  an  hour.  When  he  arose  to  go  forward  he  felt 
queer. 

The  two  had  dinner  in  the  Meadows,  with  Jerry's  sister, 
then  repaired  to  the  Punch  Bowl,  where  they  mixed  in  the 
excitement  of  pigeon-racing.  Morel  never  in  his  life  played 
cards,  considering  them  as  having  some  occult,  malevolent 
power— "the  devil's  pictures,"  he  called  them!  But  he  was  a 
master  of  skittles  and  of  dominoes.  He  took  a  challenge  from 
a  Newark  man,  on  skittles.  All  the  men  in  the  old,  long  bar 
took  sides,  betting  either  one  way  or  the  other.  Morel  took 
off  his  coat.  Jerry  held  the  hat  containing  the  money.  The 
men  at  the  tables  watched.  Some  stood  with  their  mugs  in 
their  hands.  Morel  felt  his  big  wooden  ball  carefully,  then 
launched  it.  He  played  havoc  among  the  nine-pins,  and 
won  half-a-crown,  which  restored  him  to  solvency. 

By  seven  o'clock  the  two  were  in  good  condition.  They 
caught  the  7.30  train  home. 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  2  J 

In  the  afternoon  the  Bottoms  was  intolerable.  Every  in- 
habitant remaining  was  out  of  doors.  The  women,  in  twos 
and  threes,  bareheaded  and  in  white  aprons,  gossiped  in  the 
alley  between  the  blocks.  Men,  having  a  rest  between  drinks, 
sat  on  their  heels  and  talked.  The  place  smelled  stale;  the 
slate  roofs  glistered  in  the  arid  heat. 

Mrs.  Morel  took  the  little  girl  down  to  the  brook  in  the 
meadows,  which  were  not  more  than  two  hundred  yards 
away.  The  water  ran  quickly  over  stones  and  broken  pots. 
Mother  and  child  leaned  on  the  rail  of  the  old  sheep-bridge, 
watching.  Up  at  the  dipping-hole,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
meadow,  Mrs.  Morel  could  see  the  naked  forms  of  boys 
flashing  round  the  deep  yellow  water,  or  an  occasional 
bright  figure  dart  glittering  over  the  blackish  stagnant 
meadow.  She  knew  William  was  at  the  dipping-hole,  and  it 
was  the  dread  of  her  life  lest  he  should  get  drowned.  Annie 
played  under  the  tall  old  hedge,  picking  up  alder  cones,  that 
she  called  currants.  The  child  required  much  attention,  and 
the  flies  were  teasing. 

The  children  were  put  to  bed  at  seven  o'clock.  Then  she 
worked  awhile. 

When  Walter  Morel  and  Jerry  arrived  at  Bestwood  they 
felt  a  load  off  their  minds;  a  railway  journey  no  longer 
impended,  so  they  could  put  the  finishing  touches  to  a 
glorious  day.  They  entered  the  Nelson  with  the  satisfaction 
of  returned  travellers. 

The  next  day  was  a  work-day,  and  the  thought  of  it  put 
a  damper  on  the  men's  spirits.  Most  of  them,  moreover,  had 
spent  their  money.  Some  were  already  rolling  dismally 
home,  to  sleep  in  preparation  for  the  morrow.  Mrs.  Morel, 
listening  to  their  mournful  singing,  went  indoors.  Nine 
o'clock  passed,  and  ten,  and  still  "the  pair"  had  not  returned. 
On  a  doorstep  somewhere  a  man  was  singing  loudly,  in  a 
drawl,  "Lead,  kindly  Light."  Mrs.  Morel  was  always  indig- 
nant with  drunken  men  that  they  must  sing  that  hymn  when 
they  got  maudlin. 

"As  if  'Genevieve'  weren't  good  enough,"  she  said. 

The  kitchen  was  full  of  the  scent  of  boiled  herbs  and  hops. 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


On  the  hob  a  large  black  saucepan  steamed  slowly.  Mrs. 
Morel  took  a  panchion,  a  great  bowl  of  thick  red  earth, 
streamed  a  heap  of  white  sugar  into  the  bottom,  and,  then, 
straining  herself  to  the  weight,  was  pouring  in  the  liquor. 

Just  then  Morel  came  in.  He  had  been  very  jolly  in  the 
Nelson,  but  coming  home  had  grown  irritable.  He  had  not 
quite  got  over  the  feeling  of  irritability  and  pain,  after  hav- 
ing slept  on  the  ground  when  he  was  so  hot;  and  a  bad  con- 
science afflicted  him  as  he  neared  the  house.  He  did  not 
know  he  was  angry.  But  when  the  garden  gate  resisted  his 
attempts  to  open  it,  he  kicked  it  and  broke  the  latch.  He 
entered  just  as  Mrs.  Morel  was  pouring  the  infusion  of 
herbs  out  of  the  saucepan.  Swaying  slightly,  he  lurched 
against  the  table.  The  boiling  liquor  pitched.  Mrs.  Morel 
started  back. 

"Good  gracious,"  she  cried,  "coming  home  in  his  drunken- 
ness!" 

"Comin'  home  in  his  what?"  he  snarled,  his  hat  over  his 
eye. 

Suddenly  her  blood  rose  in  a  jet. 

"Say  you're  not  drunk!"  she  flashed. 

She  had  put  down  her  saucepan,  and  was  stirring  the 
sugar  into  the  beer.  He  dropped  his  two  hands  heavily  on 
the  table,  and  thrust  his  face  forward  at  her. 

"  'Say  you're  not  drunk,'  "  he  repeated.  "Why,  nobody 
but  a  nasty  little  bitch  like  you  'ud  'ave  such  a  thought." 

He  thrust  his  face  forward  at  her. 

"There's  money  to  bezzle  with,  if  there's  money  for  noth- 
ing else." 

"I've  not  spent  a  two-shillin'  bit  this  day,"  he  said. 

"You  don't  get  as  drunk  as  a  lord  on  nothing,"  she  re- 
plied. "And,"  she  cried,  flashing  into  sudden  fury,  "if  you've 
been  sponging  on  your  beloved  Jerry,  why,  let  him  look 
after  his  children,  for  they  need  it." 

"It's  a  lie,  it's  a  lie.  Shut  your  face,  woman." 

They  were  now  at  battle-pitch.  Each  forgot  everything 
save  the  hatred  of  the  other  and  the  battle  between  them. 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  29 

She  was  fiery  and  furious  as  he.  They  went  on  till  he  called 
her  a  liar. 

"No,"  she  cried,  starting  up,  scarce  able  to  breathe.  "Don't 
call  me  that— you,  the  most  despicable  liar  that  ever  walked 
in  shoe-leather."  She  forced  the  last  words  out  of  suffocated 
lungs. 

"You're  a  liar!"  he  yelled,  banging  the  table  with  his  fist. 
"You're  a  liar,  you're  a  liar." 

She  stiffened  herself,  with  clenched  fists. 

"The  house  is  filthy  with  you,"  she  cried. 

"Then  get  out  on  it— it's  mine.  Get  out  on  it! "  he  shouted. 
"It's  me  as  brings  th'  money  whoam,  not  thee.  It's  my  house, 
not  thine.  Then  ger  out  on't— ger  out  on't!" 

"And  I  would,"  she  cried,  suddenly  shaken  into  tears  of 
impotence.  "Ah,  wouldn't  I,  wouldn't  I  have  gone  long  ago, 
but  for  those  children.  Ay,  haven't  I  repented  not  going 
years  ago,  when  I'd  only  the  one"— suddenly  drying  into 
rage.  "Do  you  think  it's  for  you  I  stop— do  you  think  I'd 
stop  one  minute  for  you}" 

"Go,  then,"  he  shouted,  beside  himself.  "Go!" 

"No!"  she  faced  round.  "No,"  she  cried  loudly,  "you 
shan't  have  it  all  your  own  way;  you  shan't  do  all  you  like. 
I've  got  those  children  to  see  to.  My  word,"  she  laughed,  "I 
should  look  well  to  leave  them  to  you." 

"Go,"  he  cried  thickly,  lifting  his  fist.  He  was  afraid  of 
her.  "Go!" 

"I  should  be  only  too  glad.  I  should  laugh,  laugh,  my  lord, 
if  I  could  get  away  from  you,"  she  replied. 

He  came  up  to  her,  his  red  face,  with  its  bloodshot  eyes, 
thrust  forward,  and  gripped  her  arms.  She  cried  in  fear  of 
him,  struggled  to  be  free.  Coming  slightly  to  himself,  pant- 
ing, he  pushed  her  roughly  to  the  outer  door,  and  thrust  her 
forth,  slotting  the  bolt  behind  her  with  a  bang.  Then  he 
went  back  into  the  kitchen,  dropped  into  his  armchair,  his 
head,  bursting  full  of  blood,  sinking  between  his  knees.  Thus 
he  dipped  gradually  into  a  stupor,  from  exhaustion  and  in- 
toxication. 


30  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

The  moon  was  high  and  magnificent  in  the  August  night. 
Mrs.  Morel,  seared  with  passion,  shivered  to  find  herself 
out  there  in  a  great  white  light,  that  fell  cold  on  her,  and 
gave  a  shock  to  her  inflamed  soul.  She  stood  for  a  few 
moments  helplessly  staring  at  the  glistening  great  rhubarb 
leaves  near  the  door.  Then  she  got  the  air  into  her  breast. 
She  walked  down  the  garden  path,  trembling  in  every  limb, 
while  the  child  boiled  within  her.  For  a  while  she  could 
not  control  her  consciousness;  mechanically  she  went  over 
the  last  scene,  then  over  it  again,  certain  phrases,  certain 
moments  coming  each  time  like  a  brand  red-hot  down  on 
her  soul;  and  each  time  she  enacted  again  the  past  hour, 
each  time  the  brand  came  down  at  the  same  points,  till 
the  mark  was  burnt  in,  and  the  pain  burnt  out,  and  at  last 
she  came  to  herself.  She  must  have  been  half  an  hour  in  this 
delirious  condition.  Then  the  presence  of  the  night  came 
again  to  her.  She  glanced  round  in  fear.  She  had  wandered 
to  the  side  garden,  where  she  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
path  beside  the  currant  bushes  under  the  long  wall.  The 
garden  was  a  narrow  strip,  bounded  from  the  road,  that  cut 
transversely  between  the  blocks,  by  a  thick  thorn  hedge. 

She  hurried  out  of  the  side  garden  to  the  front,  where 
she  pould  stand  as  if  in  an  immense  gulf  of  white  light,  the 
moon  streaming  high  in  face  of  her,  the  moonlight  standing 
up  from  the  hills  in  front,  and  filling  the  valley  where  the 
Bottoms  crouched,  almost  blindingly.  There,  panting 
and  half  weeping  in  reaction  from  the  stress,  she  mur- 
mured to  herself  over  and  over  again:  "The  nuisance!  the 
nuisance!" 

She  became  aware  of  something  about  her.  With  an  effort 
she  roused  herself  to  see  what  it  was  that  penetrated  her 
consciousness.  The  tall  white  lilies  were  reeling  in  the  moon- 
light, and  the  air  was  charged  with  their  perfume,  as  with  a 
presence.  Mrs.  Morel  gasped  slightly  in  fear.  She  touched 
the  big,  pallid  flowers  on  their  petals,  then  shivered.  They 
seemed  to  be  stretching  in  the  moonlight.  She  put  her  hand 
into  one  white  bin:  the  gold  scarcely  showed  on  her  fingers 
by  moonlight.  She  bent  down  to  look  at  the  binful  of  yellow 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  3 1 

pollen;  but  it  only  appeared  dusky.  Then  she  drank  a  deep 
draught  of  the  scent.  It  almost  made  her  dizzy. 

Mrs.  Morel  leaned  on  the  garden  gate,  looking  out,  and 
she  lost  herself  awhile.  She  did  not  know  what  she  thought. 
Except  for  a  slight  feeling  of  sickness,  and  her  consciousness 
in  the  child,  herself  melted  out  like  scent  into  the  shiny,  pale 
air.  After  a  time  the  child,  too,  melted  with  her  in  the 
mixing-pot  of  moonlight,  and  she  rested  with  the  hills  and 
lilies  and  houses,  all  swum  together  in  a  kind  of  swoon. 

When  she  came  to  herself  she  was  tired  for  sleep.  Lan- 
guidly she  looked  about  her;  the  clumps  of  white  phlox 
seemed  like  bushes  spread  with  linen;  a  moth  ricochetted 
over  them,  and  right  across  the  garden.  Following  it  with 
her  eye  roused  her.  A  few  whiffs  of  the  raw,  strong  scent 
of  phlox  invigorated  her.  She  passed  along  the  path,  hesi- 
tating at  the  white  rosebush.  It  smelled  sweet  and  simple. 
She  touched  the  white  ruffles  of  the  roses.  Their  fresh  scent 
and  cool,  soft  leaves  reminded  her  of  the  morning-time  and 
sunshine.  She  was  very  fond  of  them.  But  she  was  tired,  and 
wanted  to  sleep.  In  the  mysterious  out-of-doors  she  felt 
forlorn. 

There  was  no  noise  anywhere.  Evidently  the  children  had 
not  been  awakened,  or  had  gone  to  sleep  again.  A  train, 
three  miles  away,  roared  across  the  valley.  The  night  was 
very  large,  and  very  strange,  stretching  its  hoary  distances 
infinitely.  And  out  of  the  silver-grey  fog  of  darkness  came 
sounds  vague  and  hoarse:  a  corncrake  not  far  off,  sound  of 
a  train  like  a  sigh,  and  distant  shouts  of  men. 

Her  quietened  heart  beginning  to  beat  quickly  again,  she 
hurried  down  the  side  garden  to  the  back  of  the  house. 
Softly  she  lifted  the  latch;  the  door  was  still  bolted,  shut  hard 
against  her.  She  rapped  gently,  waited,  then  rapped  again. 
She  must  not  rouse  the  children,  nor  the  neighbours.  He 
must  be  asleep,  and  h^  would  not  wake  easily.  Her  heart 
began  to  burn  to  be  indoors.  She  clung  to  the  door-handle. 
Now  it  was  cold;  she  would  take  a  chill,  and  in  her  present 
condition! 

Putting  her  apron  over  her  head  and  her  arms,  she  hurried 


32  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

again  to  the  side  garden,  to  the  window  of  the  kitchen. 
Leaning  on  the  sill,  she  could  just  see,  under  the  blind,  her 
husband's  arms  spread  out  on  the  table,  and  his  black  head 
on  the  board.  He  was  sleeping  with  his  face  lying  on  the 
table.  Something  in  his  attitude  made  her  feel  tired  of  things. 
The  lamp  was  burning  smokily;  she  could  tell  by  the  copper 
colour  of  the  light.  She  tapped  at  the  window  more  and 
more  noisily.  Almost  it  seemed  as  if  the  glass  would  break. 
Still  he  did  not  wake  up. 

After  vain  efforts,  she  began  to  shiver,  partly  from  con- 
tact with  the  stone,  and  from  exhaustion.  Fearful  always 
for  the  unborn  child,  she  wondered  what  she  could  do  for 
warmth.  She  went  down  to  the  coal-house,  where  was  an 
old  hearthrug  she  had  carried  out  for  the  rag-man  the  day 
before.  This  she  wrapped  over  her  shoulders.  It  was  warm,, 
if  grimy.  Then  she  walked  up  and  down  the  garden  path, 
peeping  every  now  and  then  under  the  blind,  knocking,  and 
telling  herself  that  in  the  end  the  very  strain  of  his  position 
must  wake  him. 

At  last  after  about  an  hour,  she  rapped  long  and  low 
at  the  window.  Gradually  the  sound  penetrated  to  him. 
When,  in  despair,  she  had  ceased  to  tap,  she  saw  him  stir, 
:hen  lift  his  face  blindly.  The  labouring  of  his  heart  hurt 
him  into  consciousness.  She  rapped  imperatively  at  the 
window.  He  started  awake.  Instantly  she  saw  his  fists  set 
and  his  eyes  glare.  He  had  not  a  grain  of  physical  fear.  If  it 
had  been  twenty  burglars,  he  would  have  gone  blindly  for 
them.  He  glared  round,  bewildered,  but  prepared  to  fight. 

"Open  the  door,  Walter,"  she  said  coldly. 

His  hands  relaxed.  It  dawned  on  him  what  he  had  done. 
His  head  dropped,  sullen  and  dogged.  She  saw  him  hurry 
to  the  door,  heard  the  bolt  chock.  He  tried  the  latch.  It 
opened— and  there  stood  the  silver-grey  night,  fearful  to 
him,  after  the  tawny  light  of  the  lamp.  He  hurried  back. 

When  Mrs.  Morel  entered,  she  saw  him  almost  running 
through  the  door  to  the  stairs.  He  had  ripped  his  collar  off 
his  neck  in  his  haste  to  be  gone  ere  she  came  in,  and  there 
it  lay  with  bursten  button-holes.  It  made  her  angry. 


THE  EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  THE  MORELS  33 

She  warmed  and  soothed  herself.  In  her  weariness  for- 
getting everything,  she  moved  about  at  the  little  tasks  that 
remained  to  be  done,  set  his  breakfast,  rinsed  his  pit-bottle 
put  his  pit-clothes  on  the  hearth  to  warm,  set  his  pit-boots 
beside  them,  put  him  out  a  clean  scarf  and  snap-bag  and 
two  apples,  raked  the  fire,  and  went  to  bed.  He  was  already 
dead  asleep.  His  narrow  black  eyebrows  were  drawn  up  in  a 
sort  of  peevish  misery  into  his  forehead,  while  his  cheeks' 
downstrokes,  and  his  sulky  mouth,  seemed  to  be  saying:  "I 
don't  care  who  you  are  nor  what  you  are,  I  shall  have  my 
own  way." 

Mrs.  Morel  knew  him  too  well  to  look  at  him.  As  she 
unfastened  her  brooch  at  the  mirror,  she  smiled  faintly  to  see 
her  face  all  smeared  with  the  yellow  dust  of  lilies.  She 
brushed  it  off,  and  at  last  lay  down.  For  some  time  her  mind 
continued  snapping  and  jetting  sparks,  but  she  was  asleep 
before  her  husband  awoke  from  the  first  sleep  of  his 
drunkenness. 


♦ 


CHAPTER"  II 

r  11     


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER 
BATTLE 


AFTER  such  a  scene  as  the  last,  Walter  Morel  was  for 
^  some  days  abashed  and  ashamed,  but  he  soon  regained 
his  old  bullying  indifference.  Yet  there  was  a  slight  shrink- 
ing, a  diminishing  in  his  assurance.  Physically  even,  he 
shrank,  and  his  fine  full  presence  waned.  He  never  grew  in 
the  least  stout,  so  that,  as  he  sank  from  his  erect,  assertive 
bearing,  his  physique  seemed  to  contract  along  with  his 
pride  and  moral  strength. 

But  now  he  realized  how  hard  it  was  for  his  wife  to  drag 
about  at  her  work,  and,  his  sympathy  quickened  by  peni- 
tence, hastened  forward  with  his  help.  He  came  straight 
home  from  the  pit,  and  stayed  in  at  evening  till  Friday,  and 
then  he  could  not  remain  at  home.  But  he  was  back  again  by 
ten  o'clock,  almost  quite  sober. 

He  always  made  his  own  breakfast.  Being  a  man  who  rose 
early  and  had  plenty  of  time  he  did  not,  as  some  miners 
do,  drag  his  wife  out  of  bed  at  six  o'clock.  At  five,  sometimes 
earlier,  he  woke,  got  straight  out  of  bed,  and  went  down- 
stairs. When  she  could  not  sleep,  his  wife  lay  waiting  for  this 
time,  as  for  a  period  of  peace.  The  only  real  rest  seemed  to 
be  when  he  was  out  of  the  house. 

He  went  downstairs  in  his  shirt  and  then  struggled  into 
his  pit-trousers,  which  were  left  on  the  hearth  to  warm  all 
night.  There  was  always  a  fire,  because  Mrs.  Morel  raked. 
And  the  first  sound  in  the  house  was  the  bang,  bang  of  the 
poker  against  the  raker,  as  Morel  smashed  the  remainder 
of  the  coal  to  make  the  kettle,  which  was  filled  and  left  on 
'tfie  hob,  finally  boil.  His  cup  and  knife  and  fork,  all  he 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  J  5 

wanted  except  just  the  food,  was  laid  ready  on  the  table  on 
a  newspaper.  Then  he  got  his  breakfast,  made  the  tea,  packed 
the  bottom  of  the  doors  with  rags  to  shut  out  the  draught, 
piled  a  big  fire,  and  sat  down  to  an  hour  of  joy.  He  toasted 
his  bacon  on  a  fork  and  caught  the  drops  of  fat  on  his  bread; 
then  he  put  the  rasher  on  his  thick  slice  of  bread,  and  cut  off 
chunks  with  a  clasp-knife,  poured  his  tea  into  his  saucer,  and 
was  happy.  With  his  family  about,  meals  were  never  so 
pleasant.  He  loathed  a  fork;  it  is  a  modern  introduction 
which  has  still  scarcely  reached  common  people.  What 
Morel  preferred  was  a  clasp-knife.  Then,  in  solitude,  he  ate 
and  drank,  often  sitting,  in  cold  weather,  on  a  little  stool 
with  his  back  to  the  warm  chimney-piece,  his  food  on  the 
fender,  his  cup  on  the  hearth.  And  then  he  read  the  last 
night's  newspaper— what  of  it  he  could— spelling  it  over  labo- 
riously. He  preferred  to  keep  the  blinds  down  and  the  candle 
lit  even  when  it  was  daylight;  it  was  the  habit  of  the  mine. 

At  a  quarter  to  six  he  rose,  cut  two  thick  slices  of  bread- 
and-butter,  and  put  them  in  the  white  calico  snap-bag.  He 
filled  his  tin  bottle  with  tea.  Cold  tea  without  milk  or  sugar 
was  the  drink  he  preferred  for  the  pit.  Then  he  pulled  off 
his  shirt,  and  put  on  his  pit-singlet,  a  vest  of  thick  flannel 
cut  low  round  the  neck,  and  with  short  sleeves  like  a 
chemise. 

Then  he  went  upstairs  to  his  wife  with  a  cup  of  tea  be- 
cause she  was  ill,  and  because  it  occurred  to  him. 

"I've  brought  thee  a  cup  o'  tea,  lass,"  he  said. 

"Well,  you  needn't,  for  you  know  I  don't  like  it,"  she 
replied. 

"Drink  it  up;  it'll  pop  thee  off  to  sleep  again." 
She  accepted  the  tea.  It  pleased  him  to  see  her  take  it 
and  sip  it. 

"I'll  back  my  life  there's  no  sugar  in,"  she  said. 

"Yi— there's  one  big  ua"  he  replied,  injured. 

"It's  a  wonder,"  she  said,  sipping  again. 

She  had  a  winsome  face  when  her  hair  was  loose.  He  loved 
her  to  grumble  at  him  in  this  manner.  He  looked  at  her 
again,  and  went,  without  any  sort  of  leave-taking.  He  never 


36  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

took  more  than  two  slices  of  bread-and-butter  to  eat  in  the 
pit,  so  an  apple  or  an  orange  was  a  treat  to  him.  He  always 
liked  it  when  she  put  one  out  for  him.  He  tied  a  scarf  round 
his  neck,  put  on  his  great,  heavy  boots,  his  coat,  with  the 
big  pocket,  that  carried  his  snap-bag  and  his  bottle  of  tea, 
and  went  forth  into  the  fresh  morning  air,  closing,  without: 
locking,  the  door  behind  him.  He  loved  the  early  morning, 
and  the  walk  across  the  fields.  So  he  appeared  at  the  pit-top, 
often  with  a  stalk  from  the  hedge  between  his  teeth,  which 
he  chewed  all  day  to  keep  his  mouth  moist,  down  the  mine, 
feeling  quite  as  happy  as  when  he  was  in  the  field. 

Later,  when  the  time  for  the  baby  grew  nearer,  he  would 
bustle  round  in  his  slovenly  fashion,  poking  out  the  ashes, 
rubbing  the  fireplace,  sweeping  the  house  before  he  went  to 
work.  Then,  feeling  very  self-righteous,  he  went  upstairs. 

"Now  I'm  cleaned  up  for  thee;  tha's  no  'casions  ter  stir 
a  peg  all  day,  but  sit  and  read  thy  books." 

Which  made  her  laugh,  in  spite  of  her  indignation. 

"And  the  dinner  cooks  itself?"  she  answered. 

"Eh,' I  know  nowt  about  th'  dinner." 

"You'd  know  if  there  weren't  any." 

"Ay,  'appen  so,"  he  answered,  departing. 

When  she  got  downstairs,  she  would  find  the  house  tidy, 
but  dirty.  She  could  not  rest  until  she  had  thoroughly 
cleaned;  so  she  went  down  to  the  ash-pit  with  her  dust- 
oan.  Mrs.  Kirk,  spying  her,  would  contrive  to  have  to  go 
to  her  own  coal-place  at  that  minute.  Then,  across  the 
wooden  fence,  she  would  call: 

"So  you  keep  wagging  on,  then?" 

"Ay,"  answered  Mrs.  Morel  deprecatingly.  "There's  noth- 
ing else  for  it." 

"Have  you  seen  Hose?"  called  a  very  small  woman  from 
across  the  road.  It  was  Mrs.  Anthony,  2  black-haired,  strange 
little  body,  who  always  wore  a  brown  velvet  dress,  tight- 
String. 

"I  haven't,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Eh,  I  wish  he'd  come.  I've  got  a  copperful  of  clothes,  an' 
I'm  sure  I  heered  his  bell." 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  37 

"Hark!  He's  at  the  end." 

The  two  women  looked  down  the  alley.  At  the  end  of 
the  Bottoms  a  man  stood  in  a  sort  of  old-fashioned  trap, 
bending  over  bundles  of  cream-coloured  stuff;  while  a  clus- 
ter of  women  held  up  their  arms  to  him,  some  with  bundles. 
Mrs.  Anthony  herself  had  a  heap  of  creamy,  undyed  stock- 
ings hanging  over  her  arm. 

"I've  done  ten  dozen  this  week,"  she  said  proudly  to  Mrs.  ' 
Morel. 

"T-t-t!"  went  the  other.  "I  don't  know  how  you  can 
find  time." 

"Eh!"  said  Mrs.  Anthony.  "You  can  find  time  if  you  make 
time." 

"I  don't  know  how  you  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "And 
how  much  shall  you  get  for  those  many?" 

"Tuppence-ha'penny  a  dozen,"  replied  the  other. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "I'd  starve  before  I'd  sit  down 
and  seam  twenty-four  stockings  for  twopence  ha'penny." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Anthony.  "You  can  rip 
along  with  'em." 

Hose  was  coming  along,  ringing  his  bell.  Women  were 
waiting  at  the  yard-ends  with  their  seamed  stockings  hang- 
ing over  their  arms.  The  man,  a  common  fellow,  made  jokes 
with  them,  tried  to  swindle  them,  and  bullied  them.  Mrs. 
Morel  went  up  her  yard  disdainfully. 

It  was  an  understood  thing  that  if  one  woman  wanted 
her  neighbour,  she  should  put  the  poker  in  the  fire  anc 
bang  at  the  back  of  the  fireplace,  which,  as  the  fires  werd 
back  to  back,  would  make  a  great  noise  in  the  adjoining 
house.  One  morning  Mrs.  Kirk,  mixing  a  pudding,  nearly 
started  out  of  her  skin  as  she  heard  the  thud,  thud,  in  he* 
grate.  With  her  hands  all  floury,  she  rushed  to  the  fence. 

"Did  you  knock,  Mrs.  Morel?" 

"If  you  wouldn't  mind,  Mrs.  Kirk." 

Mrs.  Kirk  climbed  on  to  her  copper,  got  over  the  wall  on 
to  Mrs.  Morel's  copper,  and  ran  in  to  her  neighbour. 
"Eh,  dear,  how  are  you  feeling?"  she  cried  in  concern. 
"You  might  fetch  Mrs.  Bower,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 


38  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Mrs.  Kirk  went  into  the  yard,  lifted  up  her  strong,  shrill 
voice,  and  called: 
"Ag-gie— Ag-gie! " 

The  sound  was  heard  from  one  end  of  the  Bottoms  to 
the  other.  At  last  Aggie  came  running  up,  and  was  sent  for 
Mrs.  Bower,  whilst  Mrs.  Kirk  left  her  pudding  and  stayed 
with  her  neighbour. 

Mrs.  Morel  went  to  bed.  Mrs.  Kirk  had  Annie  and  Wil- 
liam for  dinner.  Mrs.  Bower,  fat  and  waddling,  bossed  the 
house. 

"Hash  some  cold  meat  up  for  the  master's  dinner,  and 
make  him  an  apple-charlotte  pudding,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"He  may  go  without  pudding  this  day,"  said  Mrs.  Bower, 

Morel  was  not  as  a  rule  one  of  the  first  to  appear  at  the 
bottom  of  the  pit,  ready  to  come  up.  Some  men  were  there 
before  four  o'clock,  when  the  whistle  blew  loose-all;  but 
Morel,  whose  stall,  a  poor  one,  was  at  this  time  about  a  mile 
and  a  half  away  from  the  bottom,  worked  usually  till  the 
first  mate  stopped,  then  he  finished  also.  This  day,  however, 
the  miner  was  sick  of  the  work.  At  two  o'clock  he  looked 
at  his  watch,  by  the  light  of  the  green  candle— he  was  in  a 
safe  working— and  again  at  half-past  two.  He  was  hewing 
at  a  piece  of  rock  that  was  in  the  way  for  the  next  day's 
work.  As  he  sat  on  his  heels,  or  kneeled,  giving  hard  blows 
with  his  pick,  "Uszza— uszza! "  he  went. 

"Shall  ter  finish,  Sorry?"1  cried  Barker,  his  fellow  butty. 

"Finish?  Niver  while  the  world  stands!"  growled  Morel. 
And  he  went  on  striking.  He  was  tired. 

"It's  a  heart-breaking  job,"  said  Barker. 

But  Morel  was  too  exasperated,  at  the  end  of  his  tether, 
to  answer.  Still  he  struck  and  hacked  with  all  his  might. 

"Tha  might  as  well  leave  it,  Walter,"  said  Barker.  "It'll 
do  tomorrow,  without  thee  hackin'  thy  guts  out." 

"I'll  lay  no  b —  finger  on  this  tomorrow,  Isr'el!"  cried 
Morel. 

1  "Sorry"  Is  a  common  form  of  address.  It  is,  perhaps,  a  corruption 
cf  "sirrah." 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  39 

"Oh,  well,  if  tha  wunna,  someb'dy  else'U  ha'e  to,"  said 
Israel. 

Then  Morel  continued  to  strike. 

"Hey-up  there— loose-a!"  cried  the  men,  leaving  the  next 
stall. 

Morel  continued  to  strike. 

"Tha'll  happen  catch  me  up,"  said  Barker,  departing. 

When  he  had  gone,  Morel,  left  alone,  felt  savage.  He  had 
not  finished  his  job.  He  had  overworked  himself  into  a 
frenzy.  Rising,  wet  with  sweat,  he  threw  his  tool  down, 
pulled  on  his  coat,  blew  out  his  candle,  took  his  lamp,  and 
went.  Down  the  main  road  the  lights  of  the  other  men  went 
swinging.  There  was  a  hollow  sound  of  many  voices.  It 
was  a  long,  heavy  tramp  underground. 

He  sat  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit,  where  the  great  drops 
of  water  fell  plash.  Many  colliers  were  waiting  their  turns 
to  go  up,  talking  rioisily.  Morel  gave  his  answers  short  and 
disagreeable. 

"It's  rainin',  Sorry,"  said  old  Giles,  who  had  had  th* 
news  from  the  top. 

Morel  found  one  comfort.  He  had  his  old  umbrella,  which 
he  loved,  in  the  lamp  cabin.  At  last  he  took  his  stand  on  the 
chair,  and  was  at  the  top  in  a  moment.  Then  he  handed  in 
his  lamp  and  got  his  umbrella,  which  he  had  bought  at  an 
auction  for  one-and-six.  He  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  pit- 
bank  for  a  moment,  looking  out  over  the  fields;  grey  rain 
was  falling.  The  trucks  stood  full  of  wet,  bright  coal.  Water 
ran  down  the  sides  of  the  waggons,  over  the  white  "C.  W. 
and  Co."  Colliers,  walking  indifferent  to  the  rain,  were 
streaming  down  the  line  and  up  the  field,  a  grey,  dismal 
host.  Morel  put  up  his  umbrella,  and  took  pleasure  from  the 
peppering  of  the  drops  thereon. 

All  along  the  road  to  Bestwood  the  miners  tramped,  wet 
and  grey  and  dirty,  but  their  red  mouths  talking  with  ani- 
mation. Morel  also  walked  with  the  gang,  but  he  said  noth- 
ing. He  frowned  peevishly  as  he  went.  Many  men  passed 
into  the  Prince  of  Wales  or  into  Ellen's.  Morel,  feeling 


40  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

sufficiently  disagreeable  to  resist  temptation,  trudged  along 
under  the  dripping  trees  that  overhung  the  park  wall,  and 
down  the  mud  of  Greenhill  Lane. 

Mrs.  Morel  lay  in  bed,  listening  to  the  rain,  and  the 
feet  of  the  colliers  from  Minton,  their  voices,  and  the 
bang,  bang  of  the  gates  as  they  went  through  the  stile  up 
the  field. 

"There's  some  herb  beer  behind  the  pantry-door,' '  she 
said.  "Th'  master'll  want  a  drink,  if  he  doesn't  stop." 

But  he  was  late,  so  she  concluded  he  had  called  for  a  drink, 
since  it  was  raining.  What  did  he  care  about  the  child  or 
her? 

She  was  very  ill  when  her  children  were  born. 
"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  feeling  sick  to  death. 
"A  boy." 

And  she  took  consolation  in  that.  The  thought  of  being 
the  mother  of  men  was  warming  to  her  heart.  She  looked  at 
the  child.  It  had  blue  eyes,  and  a  lot  of  fair  hair,  and  was 
bonny.  Her  love  came  up  hot,  in  spite  of  everything.  She 
had  it  in  bed  with  her. 

Morel,  thinking  nothing,  dragged  his  way  up  the  garden 
path,  wearily  and  angrily.  He  closed  his  umbrella,  and  stood 
it  in  the  sink;  then  he  sluthered  his  heavy  boots  into  the 
kitchen.  Mrs.  Bower  appeared  in  the  inner  doorway. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "she's  about  as  bad  as  she  can  be.  It's 
a  boy  childt." 

The  miner  grunted,  put  his  empty  snap-bag  and  his  tin 
bottle  on  the  dresser,  went  back  into  the  scullery  and  hung 
up  his  coat,  then  came  and  dropped  into  his  chair. 

"Han  yer  got  a  drink?"  he  asked. 

The  woman  went  into  the  pantry.  There  was  heard  the 
pop  of  a  cork.  She  set  the  mug,  with  a  little,  disgusted  rap, 
on  the  table  before  Morel.  He  drank,  gasped,  wiped  his  big 
moustache  on  the  end  of  his  scarf,  drank,  gasped,  and  lay 
back  in  his  chair.  The  woman  would  not  speak  to  him  again. 
She  set  his  dinner  before  him,  and  went  upstairs. 

"Was  that  the  master?"  asked  Mrs.  Morel. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  4 1 

"I've  gave  him  his  dinner,"  replied  Mrs.  Bower. 

After  he  had  sat  with  his  arms  on  the  table— he  resented 
the  fact  that  Mrs.  Bower  put  no  cloth  on  for  him,  and  gave 
him  a  little  plate,  instead  of  a  full-sized  dinner-plate— he  be- 
gan to  eat.  The  fact  that  his  wife  was  ill,  that  he  had  another 
boy,  was  nothing  to  him  at  that  moment.  He  was  too  tired; 
he  wanted  his  dinner;  he  wanted  to  sit  with  his  arms  lying 
on  the  board;  he  did  not  like  having  Mrs.  Bower  about.  The 
fire  was  too  small  to  please  him. 

After  he  had  finished  his  meal,  he  sat  for  twenty  minutes; 
then  he  stoked  up  a  big  fire.  Then,  in  his  stockinged  feet, 
he  went  reluctantly  upstairs.  It  was  a  struggle  to  face  his 
wife  at  this  moment,  and  he  was  tired.  His  face  was  black, 
and  smeared  with  sweat.  His  singlet  had  dried  again,  soaking 
the  dirt  in.  He  had  a  dirty  woollen  scarf  round  his  throat 
So  he  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"Well,  how  are  ter,  then?"  he  asked. 

"I  sTl  be  all  right,"  she  answered. 

"H'm!" 

He  stood  at  a  loss  what  to  say  next.  He  was  tired,  and 
this  bother  was  rather  a  nuisance  to  him,  and  he  didn't  quite 
know  where  he  was. 

"A  lad,  tha  says,"  he  stammered. 

She  turned  down  the  sheet  and  showed  the  child. 

"Bless  him!"  he  murmured.  Which  made  her  laugh,  be- 
cause he  blessed  by  rote— pretending  paternal  emotion, 
which  he  did  not  feel  just  then. 

"Go  now,"  she  said. 

"I  will,  my  lass,"  he  answered,  turning  away. 

Dismissed,  he  wanted  to  kiss  her,  but  he  dared  not.  She 
half  wanted  him  to  kiss  her,  but  could  not  bring  herself  to 
give  any  sign.  She  only  breathed  freely  when  he  was  gone 
out  of  the  room  again,  leaving  behind  him  a  faint  smell  of 
pit-dirt. 

Mrs.  Morel  had  a  visit  every  day  from  the  Congregational 
clergyman.  Mr.  Heaton  was  young,  and  very  poor.  His  wife 
had  died  at  the  birth  of  his  first  baby,  so  he  remained  alone 


42  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

in  the  manse.  He  was  a  Bachelor  of  Arts  of  Cambridge,  very 
shy,  and  no  preacher.  Mrs.  Morel  was  fond  of  him,  and  he 
depended  on  her.  For  hours  he  talked  to  her,  when  she  was 
well.  He  became  the  god-parent  of  the  child. 

Occasionally  the  minister  stayed  to  tea  with  Mrs.  Morel. 
Then  she  laid  the  cloth  early,  got  out  her  best  cups,  with 
a  little  green  rim,  and  hoped  Morel  would  not  come  too 
soon;  indeed,  if  he  stayed  for  a  pint,  she  would  not  mind 
this  day.  She  had  always  two  dinners  to  cook,  because  she 
believed  children  should  have  their  chief  meal  at  midday, 
whereas  Morel  needed  his  at  five  o'clock.  So  Mr.  Heaton 
would  hold  the  baby,  whilst  Mrs.  Morel  beat  up  a  batter- 
pudding  or  peeled  the  potatoes,  and  he,  watching  her  all  the 
time,  would  discuss  his  next  sermon.  His  ideas  were  quaint 
and  fantastic.  She  brought  him  judiciously  to  earth.  It  was  a 
discussion  of  the  wedding  at  Cana. 

"When  He  changed  the  water  into  wine  at  Cana,''  he  said, 
"that  is  a  symbol  that  the  ordinary  life,  even  the  blood,  of 
the  married  husband  and  wife,  which  had  before  been  unin- 
spired, like  water,  became  filled  with  the  Spirit,  and  was  as 
wine,  because,  when  love  enters,  the  whole  spiritual  consti- 
tution of  a  man  changes,  is  filled  with  the  Holy  Ghost,  and 
almost  his  form  is  altered." 

Mrs.  Morel  thought  to  herself: 

"Yes,  poor  fellow,  his  young  wife  is  dead;  that  is  why 
he  makes  his  love  into  the  Holy  Ghost." 

They  were  halfway  down  their  first  cup  of  tea  when 
they  heard  the  sluther  of  pit-boots. 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morel,  in  spite  of 
herself. 

The  minister  looked  rather  scared.  Morel  entered.  He 
was  feeling  rather  savage.  He  nodded  a  "How  d'yer  do"  to 
the  clergyman,  who  rose  to  shake  hands  with  him. 

"Nay,"  said  Morel,  showing  his  hand,  "look  thee  at  it! 
Tha  niver  wants  ter  shake  hands  wi'  a  hand  like  that,  does 
ter?  There's  too  much  pick-haft  and  shovel-dirt  on  it." 

The  minister  flushed  with  confusion,  and  sat  <fcwn  again. 
Mrs.  Morel  rose,  carried  out  the  steaming  saucepan.  Morel 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  4  J 

took  off  his  coat,  dragged  his  armchair  to  table,  and  sat 
down  heavily. 

"Are  you  tired?"  asked  the  clergyman. 

"Tired?  I  ham  that,"  replied  Morel.  "You  don't  know 
what  it  is  to  be  tired,  as  V m  tired." 

"No,"  replied  the  clergyman. 

"Why,  look  yer  'ere,"  said  the  miner,  showing  the  shoul- 
ders of  his  singlet.  "It's  a  bit  dry  now,  but  it's  wet  as  a 
clout  with  sweat  even  yet.  Feel  it." 

"Goodness!"  cried  Mrs.  Morel.  "Mr.  Heaton  doesn't  want 
to  feel  your  nasty  singlet." 

The  clergyman  put  out  his  hand  gingerly. 

"No,  perhaps  he  doesn't,"  said  Morel;  "but  it's  all  com* 
out  of  me,  whether  or  not.  An'  ivry  day  alike  my  singlet's 
wringin'  wet.  'Aven't  you  got  a  drink,  Missis,  for  a  man 
when  he  comes  home  barkled  up  from  the  pit?" 

"You  know  you  drank  all  the  beer,"  said  Mrs.  Morel, 
pouring  out  his  tea. 

"An'  was  there  no  more  to  be  got?"  Turning  to  the 
clergyman— "A  man  gets  that  caked  up  wi'  th'  dust,  you 
know,— that  clogged  up  down  a  coalmine,  he  needs  a  drink 
when  he  comes  home." 

"I  am  sure  he  does,"  said  the  clergyman. 

"But  it's  ten  to  one  if  there's  owt  for  him." 

"There's  water— and  there's  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Water!  It's  not  water  as'll  clear  his  throat." 

He  poured  out  a  saucerful  of  tea,  blew  it,  and  sucked  it 
up  through  his  great  black  moustache,  sighing  afterwards. 
Then  he  poured  out  another  saucerful,  and  stood  his  cup  on 
the  table. 

"My  cloth!"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  putting  it  on  a  plate. 

"A  man  as  comes  home  as  I  do 's  too  tired  to  care  about 
cloths,"  said  Morel. 

"Pity!"  exclaimed  his  wife,  sarcastically. 

The  room  was  full  of  the  smell  of  meat  and  vegetables  and 
pit-clothes. 

He  leaned  over  to  the  minister,  his  great  moustache  thrus* 
forward,  his  mouth  very  red  in  his  black  face. 


44  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Mr.  Heaton,"  he  said,  "a  man  as  has  been  down  the  black 
hole  all  day,  dingin'  away  at  a  coal  face,  yi,  a  sight  harder 
than  that  wall  " 

"Needn't  make  a  moan  of  it,"  put  in  Mrs.  Morel. 

She  hated  her  husband  because,  whenever  he  had  an  audi- 
ence, he  whined  and  played  for  sympathy.  William,  sitting 
nursing  the  baby,  hated  him,  with  a  boy's  hatred  for  false 
sentiment,  and  for  the  stupid  treatment  of  his  mother.  Annie 
had  never  liked  him;  she  merely  avoided  him. 

When  the  minister  had  gone,  Mrs.  Morel  looked  at  her 
doth. 

"A  fine  mess! "  she  said. 

"Dos't  think  I'm  goin'  to  sit  wi'  my  arms  danglin',  cos  tha's 
got  a  parson  for  tea  wi'  thee?"  he  bawled. 

They  were  both  angry,  but  she  said  nothing.  The  baby 
began  to  cry,  and  Mrs.  Morel,  picking  up  a  saucepan  from 
the  hearth,  accidentally  knocked  Annie  on  the  head,  where- 
upon the  girl  began  to  whine,  and  Morel  to  shout  at  her. 
In  the  midst  of  this  pandemonium,  William  looked  up  at 
the  big  glazed  text  over  the  mantelpiece  and  read  distinctly: 

"God  Bless  Our  Home!" 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Morel,  trying  to  soothe  the  baby, 
jumped  up,  rushed  at  him,  boxed  his  ears,  saying: 
"What  are  you  putting  in  for?" 

And  then  she  sat  down  and  laughed,  till  tears  ran  over  her 
cheeks,  while  William  kicked  the  stool  he  had  been  sitting 
on,  and  Morel  growled: 

"I  canna  see  what  there  is  so  much  to  laugh  at." 

One  evening,  directly  after  the  parson's  visit,  feeling  un- 
able to  bear  herself  after  another  display  from  her  hus- 
band, she  took  Annie  and  the  baby  and  went  out.  Morel  had 
kicked  William,  and  the  mother  would  never  forgive  him. 

She  went  over  the  sheep-bridge  and  across  a  corner  of 
the  meadow  to  the  cricket-ground.  The  meadows  seemed 
one  space  of  ripe,  evening  light,  whispering  with  the  distant 
mill-race.  She  sat  on  a  seat  under  the  alders  in  the  cricket- 
ground,  and  fronted  the  evening.  Before  her,  level  and  solid, 
spread  the  big  green  cricket-field,  like  the  bed  of  a  sea  of 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  45 

light.  Children  played  in  the  bluish  shadow  of  the  pavilion. 
Many  rooks,  high  up,  came  cawing  home  across  the  softly 
woven  sky.  They  stooped  in  a  long  curve  down  into  the 
golden  glow,  concentrating,  cawing,  wheeling,  like  black 
flakes  on  a  slow  vortex,  over  a  tree-clump  that  made  a  dark 
boss  among  the  pasture. 

A  few  gentlemen  were  practising,  and  Mrs.  Morel  could 
hear  the  chock  of  the  ball,  and  the  voices  of  men  suddenly 
roused;  could  see  the  white  forms  of  men  shifting  silently 
over  the  green,  upon  which  already  the  under  shadows  were 
smouldering.  Away  at  the  grange,  one  side  of  the  haystack* 
was  lit  up,  the  other  sides  blue-grey.  A  waggon 'of  sheaves 
rocked  small  across  the  melting  yellow  light. 

The  sun  was  going  down.  Every  open  evening,  the  hills 
of  Derbyshire  were  blazed  over  with  red  sunset.  Mrs.  Morel 
watched  the  sun  sink  from  the  glistening  sky,  leaving  a  soft 
flower-blue  overhead,  while  the  western  space  went  red,  as 
if  all  the  fire  had  swum  down  there,  leaving  the  bell  cast 
flawless  blue.  The  mountain-ash  berries  across  the  field  stood 
fierily  out  from  the  dark  leaves,  for  a  moment.  A  few  shocks 
of  corn  in  a  corner  of  the  fallow  stood  up  as  if  alive;  she 
imagined  them  bowing;  perhaps  her  son  would  be  a  Joseph. 
In  the  east,  a  mirrored  sunset  floated  pink  opposite  the  west's 
scarlet.  The  big  haystacks  on  the  hillside,  that  butted  into 
the  glare,  went  cold. 

With  Mrs.  Morel  it  was  one  of  those  still  moments  when 
the  small  frets  vanish,  and  the  beauty  of  things  stands  out, 
and  she  had  the  peace  and  the  strength  to  see  herself.  Now 
and  again,  a  swallow  cut  close  to  her.  Now  and  again,  Annie 
came  up  with  a  handful  of  alder-currants.  The  baby  was 
restless  on  his  mother's  knee,  clambering  with  his  hands  at 
the  light. 

Mrs.  Morel  looked  down  at  him.  She  had  dreaded  this, 
baby  like  a  catastrophe,  because  of  her  feeling  for  her  hus- 
band. And  now  she  felt  strangely  towards  the  infant.  Her 
heart  was  heavy  because  of  the  child,  almost  as  if  it  were 
unhealthy,  or  malformed.  Yet  it  seemed  quite  well.  But  she 
noticed  the  peculiar  knitting  of  the  baby's  brows,  and  the 


46  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

peculiar  heaviness  of  its  eyes,  as  if  it  were  trying  to  under- 
stand something  that  was  pain.  She  felt,  when  she  looked  at 
the  child's  dark,  brooding  pupils,  as  if  a  burden  were  on  her 
heart. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  was  thinking  about  something— quite 
sorrowful,"  said  Mrs.  Kirk. 

Suddenly,  looking  at  him,  the  heavy  feeling  at  the 
mother's  heart  melted  into  passionate  grief.  She  bowed  over 
him,  and  a  few  tears  shook  swiftly  out  of  her  very  heart. 
The  baby  lifted  his  fingers. 

"My  lamb!"  she  cried  softly. 

And  at  that  moment  she  felt,  in  some  far  inner  place  of 
her  soul,  that  she  and  her  husband  were  guilty. 

The  baby  was  looking  up  at  her.  It  had  blue  eyes  like 
her  own,  but  its  look  was  heavy,  steady,  as  if  it  had  realized 
something  that  had  stunned  some  point  of  its  soul. 

In  her  arms  lay  the  delicate  baby.  Its  deep  blue  eyes, 
always  looking  up  at  her  unblinking,  seemed  to  draw  her 
innermost  thoughts  out  of  her.  She  no  longer  loved  her 
husband;  she  had  not  wanted  this  child  to  come,  and  there 
it  lay  in  her  arms  and  pulled  at  her  heart.  She  felt  as  if  the 
navel  string  that  had  connected  its  frail  little  body  with  hers 
had  not  been  broken.  A  wave  of  hot  love  went  over  her  to 
the  infant.  She  held  it  close  to  her  face  and  breast.  With  all 
her  force,  with  all  her  soul  she  would  make  up  to  it  for 
having  brought  it  into  the  world  unloved.  She  would  love  it 
all  the  more  now  it  was  here;  carry  it  in  her  love.  Its  clear, 
knowing  eyes  gave  her  pain  and  fear.  Did  it  know  all  about 
her?  When  it  lay  under  her  heart,  had  it  been  listening  then? 
Was  there  a  reproach  in  the  look?  She  felt  the  marrow  melt 
in  her  bones,  with  fear  and  pain. 

Once  more  she  was  aware  of  the  sun  lying  red  on  the 
rim  of  the  hill  opposite.  She  suddenly  held  up  the  child  in 
her  hands. 

"Look!"  she  said.  "Look,  my  pretty!" 

She  thrust  the  infant  forward  to  the  crimson,  throbbing 
*un,  almost  with  relief.  She  saw  him  lift  his  little  fist.  Then 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  47 

she  put  him  to  her  bosom  again,  ashamed  almost  of  her  im- 
pulse to  give  him  back  again  whence  he  came. 

"If  he  lives,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "what  will  become 
of  him— what  v/ill  he  be?" 

Her  heart  was  anxious. 

"I  will  call  him  'Paul,'  "  she  said  suddenly;  she  knew  not 
why. 

After  a  while  she  went  home.  A  fine  shadow  was  flung 
over  the  deep  green  meadow,  darkening  all. 

As  she  expected,  she  found  the  house  empty.  But  Morel 
was  home  by  ten  o'clock,  and  that  day,  at  least,  ended 
peacefully. 

•  Walter  Morel  was,  at  this  time,  exceedingly  irritable.  His 
work  seemed  to  exhaust  him.  When  he  came  home  he  did 
not  speak  civilly  to  anybody.  If  the  fire  were  rather  low  he 
bullied  about  that;  he  grumbled  about  his  dinner;  if  the  chil- 
dren made  a  chatter  he  shouted  at  them  in  a  way  that  made 
their  mother's  blood  boil,  and  made  them  hate  him. 

On  the  Saturday,  he  was  not  home  by  eleven  o'clock. 
The  baby  was  unwell,  and  was  restless,  crying  if  he  were 
put  down.  Mrs.  Morel,  tired  to  death,  and  still  weak,  was 
scarcely  under  control. 

"I  wish  the  nuisance  would  come,"  she  said  wearily  to 
herself. 

The  child  at  last  sank  down  to  sleep  in  her  arms.  She  was 
too  tired  to  carry  hirn  to  the  cradle. 

"But  I'll  say  nothing,  whatever  time  he  comes,"  she  said. 
"It  only  works  me  up;  I  won't  say  anything.  But  I  know  if 
he  does  anything  it'll  make  my  blood  boil,"  she  added  to 
herself. 

She  sighed,  hearing  him  coming,  as  if  it  were  something 
she  could  not  bear.  He,  taking  his  revenge,  was  nearly  drunk. 
She  kept  her  head  bent  over  the  child  as  he  entered,  not 
wishing  to  see  him.  But  it  went  through  her  like  a  flash  of 
hot  fire  when,  in  parsing,  he  lurched  against  the  dresser, 
setting  the  tins  rattling,  and  clutched  at  the  white  pot  knobs 
for  support.  He  hung  up  his  hat  and  coat,  then  returned, 


48  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

stood  glowering  from  a  distance  at  her,  as  she  sat  bowed 
over  the  child. 

"Is  there  nothing  to  eat  in  the  house?"  he  asked,  insolently, 
as  if  to  a  servant.  In  certain  stages  of  his  intoxication  he 
affected  the  clipped,  mincing  speech  of  the  towns.  Mrs. 
Morel  hated  him  most  in  this  condition. 

"You  know  what  there  is  in  the  house,"  she  said,  so  coldly, 
it  sounded  impersonal. 

He  stood  and  glared  at  her  without  moving  a  muscle. 

"I  asked  a  civil  question,  and  I  expect  a  civil  answer,"  he 
said  affectedly. 

"And  you  got  it,"  she  said,  still  ignoring  him. 

He  glowered  again.  Then  he  came  unsteadily  forward. 
He  leaned  on  the  table  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
jerked  at  the  table  drawer  to  get  a  knife  to  cut  bread.  The 
drawer  stuck  because  he  pulled  sideways.  In  a  temper  he 
dragged  it,  so  that  it  flew  out  bodily,  and  spoons,  forks, 
knives,  a  hundred  metallic  things,  splashed  with  a  clatter 
and  a  clang  upon  the  brick  floor.  The  baby  gave  a  little 
convulsed  start. 

"What  are  you  doing,  clumsy,  drunken  fool?"  the  mother 
cried. 

"Then  tha  should  get  the  flamin'  thing  thysen.  Tha  should 
get  up,  like  other  women  have  to,  an'  wait  on  a  man." 

"Wait  on  you— wait  on  you?"  she  cried.  "Yes,  I  see  my- 
self." 

"Yis,  an'  I'll  learn  thee  tha's  got  to.  Wait  on  me,  yes,  tha 

sh'lt  wait  on  me  " 

"Never,  milord.  I'd  wait  on  a  dog  at  the  door  first." 

"What-what?" 

He  was  trying  to  fit  in  the  drawer.  At  her  last  speech  he 
turned  round.  His  face  was  crimson,  his  eyes  blood-shot.  He 
stared  at  her  one  silent  second  in  threat. 

"P-h!"  she  went  quickly,  in  contempt. 

He  jerked  at  the  drawer  in  his  excitement.  It  fell,  cut 
sharply  on  his  shin,  and  on  the  reflex  he  flung  it  at  her. 

One  of  the  corners  caught  her  brow  as  the  shallow  drawer 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  49 

crashed  into  the  fireplace.  She  swayed,  almost  fell  stunned 
from  her  chair.  To  her  very  soul  she  was  sick;  she  clasped 
the  child  tightly  to  her  bosom.  A  few  moments  elapsed; 
then,  with  an  effort,  she  brought  herself  to.  The  baby  waf 
crying  plaintively.  Her  left  brow  was  bleeding  rather  pro- 
fusely. As  she  glanced  down  at  the  child,  her  brain  reeling, 
some  drops  of  blood  soaked  into  its  white  shawl;  but  the 
baby  was  at  least  not  hurt.  She  balanced  her  head  to  keep 
equilibrium,  so  that  the  blood  ran  into  her  eye. 

Walter  Morel  remained  as  he  had  stood,  leaning  on  the 
table  with  one  hand,  looking  blank.  When  he  was  suffi- 
ciently sure  of  his  balance,  he  went  across  to  her,  swayed^ 
caught  hold  of  the  back  of  her  rocking-chair,  almost  tip- 
ping her  out;  then,  leaning  forward  over  her,  and  swayir  g 
as  he  spoke,  he  said,  in  tone  of  wondering  concern: 

"Did  it  catch  thee?" 

He  swayed  again,  as  if  he  would  pitch  on  to  the  child. 
With  the  catastrophe  he  had  lost  all  balance. 

"Go  away,"  she  said,  struggling  to  keep  her  presence  of 
mind. 

He  hiccoughed.  "Let's— let's  look  at  it,"  he  said,  hiccough-, 
ing  again. 

"Go  away!"  she  cried. 
"Lemme— lemme  look  at  it,  lass." 

She  smelled  him  of  drink,  felt  the  unequal  pull  of  his 
swaying  grasp  on  the  back  of  her  rocking-chair. 

"Go  away,"  she  said,  and  weakly  she  pushed  him  off. 

He  stood,  uncertain  in  balance,  gazing  upon  her.  Sum- 
moning all  her  strength  she  rose,  the  baby  on  one  arm. 
By  a  cruel  effort  of  will,  moving  as  if  in  sleep,  she  went 
across  to  the  scullery,  where  she  bathed  her  eye  for  a  minute 
in  cold  water;  but  she  was  too  dizzy.  Afraid  lest  she  should 
swoon,  she  returned  to  her  rocking-chair,  trembling  in  every 
fibre.  By  instinct,  she  kept  the  baby  clasped. 

Morel,  bothered,  had  succeeded  in  pushing  the  drawe* 
back  into  its  cavity,  and  was  on  his  knees,  groping,  with 
numb  paws,  for  the  scattered  spoons. 


50  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Her  brow  was  still  bleeding.  Presently  Morel  got  up  and 
came  craning  his  neck  towards  her. 

uWhat  has  it  done  to  thee,  lass?"  he  asked,  in  a  very 
wretched,  humble  tone. 

"You  can  see  what  it's  done,"  she  answered. 

He  stood,  bending  forward,  supported  on  his  hands,  which 
grasped  his  legs  just  above  the  knee.  He  peered  to  look  at 
the  wound.  She  drew  away  from  the  thrust  of  his  face  with 
its  great  moustache,  averting  her  own  face  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. As  he  looked  at  her,  who  was  cold  and  impassive  as 
stone,  with  mouth  shut  tight,  he  sickened  with  feebleness 
and  hopelessness  of  spirit.  He  was  turning  drearily  away, 
when  he  saw  a  drop  of  blood  fall  from  the  averted  wound 
into  the  baby's  fragile,  glistening  hair.  Fascinated,  he  watched 
the  heavy  dark  drop  hang  in  the  glistening  cloud,  and  pull 
down  the  gossamer.  Another  drop  fell.  It  would  soak  through 
to  the  baby's  scalp.  He  watched,  fascinated,  feeling  it  soak 
in;  then,  finally,  his  manhood  broke. 

"What  of  this  child?"  was  all  his  wife  said  to  him.  But 
her  low,  intense  tones  brought  his  head  lower.  She  softened: 
"Get  me  some  wadding  out  of  the  middle  drawer,"  she  said. 

He  stumbled  away  very  obediently,  presently  returning 
with  a  pad,  which  she  singed  before  the  fire,  then  put  on 
her  forehead,  as  she  sat  with  the  baby  on  her  lap. 

"Now  that  clean  pit-scarf." 

Again  he  rummaged  and  fumbled  in  the  drawer,  returning 
presently  with  a  red,  narrow  scarf.  She  took  it,  and  with 
trembling  fingers  proceeded  to  bind  it  round  her  head. 

"Let  me  tie  it  for  thee,"  he  said  humbly. 

"I  can  do  it  myself,"  she  replied.  When  it  was  done  she 
went  upstairs,  telling  him  to  rake  the  fire  and  lock  the  door. 

In  the  morning  Mrs.  Morel  said: 

"I  knocked  against  the  latch  of  the  coal-place,  when  I 
was  getting  a  raker  in  the  dark,  because  the  candle  blew 
out."  Her  two  small  children  looked  up  at  her  with  wide, 
dismayed  eyes.  They  said  nothing,  but  their  parted  lips 
seemed  to  express  the  unconscious  tragedy  they  felt. 

Walter  Morel  lay  in  bed  next  day  until  nearly  dinner- 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  5 1 

time.  He  did  not  think  of  the  previous  evening's  work.  He 
scarcely  thought  of  anything,  but  he  would  not  think  of 
that.  He  lay  and  suffered  like  a  sulking  dog.  He  had  hurt 
himself  most;  and  he  was  the  more  damaged  because  he 
would  never  say  a  word  to  her,  or  express  his  sorrow.  He 
tried  to  wriggle  out  of  it.  "It  was  her  own  fault,"  he  said  to 
himself.  Nothing,  however,  could  prevent  his  inner  con- 
sciousness inflicting  on  him  the  punishment  which  ate  into 
his  spirit  like  rust,  and  which  he  could  only  alleviate  by 
drinking. 

He  felt  as  if  he  had  not  the  initiative  to  get  up,  or  to  say 
a  word,  or  to  move,  but  could  only  lie  like  a  log.  Moreover, 
he  had  himself  violent  pains  in  the  head.  It  was  Saturday, 
Towards  noon  he  rose,  cut  himself  food  in  the  pantry,  ate 
it  with  his  head  dropped,  then  pulled  on  his  boots,  and  went 
out,  to  return  at  three  o'clock  slightly  tipsy  and  relieved; 
then  once  more  straight  to  bed.  He  rose  again  at  six  in  the 
evening,  had  tea  and  went  straight  out. 

Sunday  was  the  same:  bed  till  noon,  the  Palmerston  Arms 
till  2.30,  dinner,  and  bed;  scarcely  a  word  spoken.  When  Mrs. 
Morel  went  upstairs,  towards  four  o'clock,  to  put  on  her 
Sunday  dress,  he  was  fast  asleep.  She  would  have  felt  sorry 
for  him,  if  he  had  once  said,  "Wife,  I'm  sorry."  But  no;  he 
insisted  to  himself  it  was  her  fault.  And  so  he  broke  himself. 
So  she  merely  left  him  alone.  There  was  this  deadlock  of 
passion  between  them,  and  she  was  stronger. 

The  family  began  tea.  Sunday  was  the  only  day  when 
all  sat  down  to  meals  together. 

"Isn't  my  father  going  to  get  up?"  asked  William. 

"Let  him  lie,"  the  mother  replied. 

There  was  a  feeling  of  misery  over  all  the  house.  The 
children  breathed  the  air  that  was  poisoned,  and  they  felt 
dreary.  They  were  rather  disconsolate,  did  not  know  what 
to  do,  what  to  play  at. 

Immediately  Morel  woke  he  got  straight  out  of  bed.  That 
was  characteristic  of  him  all  his  life.  He  was  all  for  activity. 
The  prostrated  inactivity  of  two  mornings  was  stifling  him. 

It  was  near  six  o'clock  when  he  got  down.  This  time  he 


52  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

entered  without  hesitation,  his  wincing  sensitiveness  having 
hardened  again.  He  did  not  care  any  longer  what  the  family 
thought  or  felt. 

The  tea-things  were  on  the  table.  William  was  reading 
aloud  from  "The  Child's  Own,"  Annie  listening  and  asking 
eternally  "Why?"  Both  children  hushed  into  silence  as  they 
heard  the  approaching  thud  of  their  father's  stockinged  feet, 
and  shrank  as  he  entered.  Yet  he  was  usually  indulgent  to 
them. 

Morel  made  the  meal  alone,  brutally.  He  ate  and  drank 
more  noisily  than  he  had  need.  No  one  spoke  to  him.  The 
family  life  withdrew,  shrank  away,  and  became  hushed  as 
he  entered.  But  he  cared  no  longer  about  his  alienation. 

Immediately  he  had  finished  tea  he  rose  with  alacrity  to 
go  out.  It  was  this  alacrity,  this  haste  to  be  gone,  which  so 
sickened  Mrs.  Morel.  As  she  heard  him  sousing  heartily  in 
cold  water,  heard  the  eager  scratch  of  the  steel  comb  on  the 
side  of  the  bowl,  as  he  wetted  his  hair,  she  closed  her  eyes 
in  disgust.  As  he  bent  over,  lacing  his  boots,  there  was  a 
certain  vulgar  gusto  in  his  movement  that  divided  him  from 
the  reserved,  watchful  rest  of  the  family.  He  always  ran 
away  from  the  battle  with  himself.  Even  in  his  own  heart's 
privacy,  he  excused  himself,  saying,  "If  she  hadn't  said  so- 
and-so,  it  would  never  have  happened.  She  asked  for  what 
she's  got."  The  children  waited  in  restraint  during  his  prepa- 
rations. When  he  had  gone,  they  sighed  with  relief. 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  was  glad.  It  was  a 
rainy  evening.  The  Palmerston  would  be  the  cosier.  He 
hastened  forward  in  anticipation.  All  the  slate  roofs  of  the 
Bottoms  shone  black  with  wet.  The  roads,  always  dark  with 
coal-dust,  were  full  of  blackish  mud.  He  hastened  along. 
The  Palmerston  windows  were  steamed  over.  The  passage 
Was  paddled  with  wet  feet.  But  the  air  was  warm,  if  foul, 
and  full  of  the  sound  of  voices  and  the  smell  of  beer  and 
smoke. 

"What  shollt  ha'e,  Walter?"  cried  a  voice,  as  soon  as 
Morel  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
"Oh,  Jim,  my  lad,  wheriver  has  thee  sprung  frae?" 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  5  J 

The  men  made  a  seat  for  him,  and  took  him  in  warmly. 
He  was  glad.  In  a  minute  or  two  they  had  thawed  all  re- 
sponsibility out  of  him,  all  shame,  all  trouble,  and  he  was 
clear  as  a  bell  for  a  jolly  night. 

On  the  Wednesday  following,  Morel  was  penniless.  He 
dreaded  his  wife.  Having  hurt  her,  he  hated  her.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  himself  that  evening,  having 
not  even  twopence  with  which  to  go  to  the  Palmerston, 
and  being  already  rather  deeply  in  debt.  So,  while  his  wife 
was  down  the  garden  with  the  child,  he  hunted  in  the  top 
drawer  of  the  dresser  where  she  kept  her  purse,  found  it, 
and  looked  inside.  It  contained  a  half-crown,  two  half- 
pennies, and  a  sixpence.  So  he  took  the  sixpence,  put  the 
purse  carefully  back,  and  went  out. 

The  next  day,  when  she  wanted  to  pay  the  greengrocer, 
she  looked  in  the  purse  for  her  sixpence,  and  her  heart  sank 
to  her  shoes.  Then  she  sat  down  and  thought:  "Was  there 
a  sixpence?  I  hadn't  spent  it,  had  I?  And  I  hadn't  left  it 
anywhere  else?" 

She  was  much  put  about.  She  hunted  round  everywhere 
for  it.  And,  as  she  thought,  the  conviction  came  into  her 
heart  that  her  husband  had  taken  it.  What  she  had  in  hei 
purse  was  all  the  money  she  possessed.  But  that  he  should 
sneak  it  from  her  thus  was  unbearable.  He  had  done  so  twice 
before.  The  first  time  she  had  not  accused  him,  and  at  the 
week-end  he  had  put  the  shilling  again  into  her  purse.  So 
that  was  how  she  had  known  he  had  taken  it.  The  second 
time  he  had  not  paid  back. 

This  time  she  felt  it  was  too  much.  When  he  had  had 
his  dinner— he  came  home  early  that  day— she  said  to  him 
coldly: 

"Did  you  take  sixpence  out  of  my  purse  last  night?" 

"Me!"  he  said,  looking  up  in  an  offended  way.  "No,  I 
didna!  I  niver  clapped  eyes  on  your  purse." 

But  she  could  detect  the  lie. 

"Why,  you  know  you  did,"  she  said  quietly. 

"I  tell  you  I  didna,"  he  shouted.  "Yer  at  me  again,  are 
yer?  I've  had  about  enough  on't." 


54  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"So  you  filch  sixpence  out  of  my  purse  while  I'm  taking 
the  clothes  in." 

"I'll  make  yer  pay  for  this,"  he  said,  pushing  back  his  chair 
in  desperation.  He  bustled  and  got  washed,  then  went  de- 
terminedly upstairs.  Presently  he  came  down  dressed,  and 
with  a  big  bundle  in  a  blue-checked,  enormous  handkerchief. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "you'll  see  me  again  when  you  do." 

"It'll  be  before  I  want  to,"  she  replied;  and  at  that  he 
marched  out  of  the  house  with  his  bundle.  She  sat  trembling 
slightly,  but  her  heart  brimming  with  contempt.  What  would 
she  do  if  he  went  to  some  other  pit,  obtained  work,  and  got 
in  with  another  woman?  But  she  knew  him  too  well— he 
couldn't.  She  was  dead  sure  of  him.  Nevertheless  her  heart 
was  gnawed  inside  her. 

"Where's  my  dad?"  said  William,  coming  in  from  school. 

"He  says  he's  run  away,"  replied  the  mother. 

"Whereto?" 

"Eh,  I  don't  know.  He's  taken  a  bundle  in  the  blue  hand- 
kerchief, and  says  he's  not  coming  back." 

"What  shall  we  do?"  cried  the  boy. 

"Eh,  never  trouble,  he  won't  go  far." 

"But  if  he  doesn't  come  back,"  wailed  Annie. 

And  she  and  William  retired  to  the  sofa  and  wept.  Mrs. 
Morel  sat  and  laughed. 

"You  pair  of  gabeys!"  she  exclaimed.  "You'll  see  him  be- 
fore the  night's  out." 

But  the  children  were  not  to  be  consoled.  Twilight  came 
on.  Mrs.  Morel  grew  anxious  from  very  weariness.  One 
part  of  her  said,  it  would  be  a  relief  to  see  the  last  of  him; 
another  part  fretted  because  of  keeping  the  children;  and 
inside  her,  as  yet,  she  could  not  quite  let  him  go.  At  the 
bottom,  she  knew  very  well  he  could  not  go. 

When  she  went  down  to  the  coal-place  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  however,  she  felt  something  behind  the  door.  So  she 
looked.  And  there  in  the  dark  lay  the  big  blue  bundle.  She 
sat  on  a  piece  of  coal  in  front  of  the  bundle  and  laughed. 
Every  time  she  saw  it,  so  fat  and  yet  so  ignominious,  slunk 


THE  BIRTH  OF  PAUL,  AND  ANOTHER  BATTLE  55 

into  its  corner  in  the  dark,  with  its  ends  flopping  like  dejected 
ears  from  the  knots,  she  laughed  again.  She  was  relieved. 

Mrs.  Morel  sat  waiting.  He  had  not  any  money,  she  knew, 
so  if  he  stopped  he  was  running  up  a  bill.  She  was  very  tired 
of  him—tired  to  death.  He  had  not  even  the  courage  to  carry 
his  bundle  beyond  the  yard-end. 

As  she  meditated,  at  about  nine  o'clock,  he  opened  the 
door  and  came  in,  slinking,  and  yet  sulky.  She  said  not  a 
word.  He  took  off  his  coat,  and  slunk  to  his  armchair,  where 
he  began  to  take  off  his  boots. 

"You'd  better  fetch  your  bundle  before  you  take  your 
boots  off,"  she  said  quietly. 

"You  may  thank  your  stars  I've  come  back  tonight,"  he 
said,  looking  up  from  under  his  dropped  head,  sulkily,  trying 
to  be  impressive. 

"Why,  where  should  you  have  gone?  You  daren't  even 
get  your  parcel  through  the  yard-end,"  she  said. 

He  looked  such  a  fool  she  was  not  even  angry  with  him. 
He  continued  to  take  his  boots  off  and  prepare  for  bed. 

"I  don't  know  what's  in  your  blue  handkerchief,"  she 
said.  "But  if  you  leave  it  the  children  shall  fetch  it  in  the 
morning." 

Whereupon  he  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  house,  re- 
turning presently  and  crossing  the  kitchen  with  averted  face, 
hurrying  upstairs.  As  Mrs.  Morel  saw  him  slink  quickly 
through  the  inner  doorway,  holding  his  bundle,  she  laughed 
to  herself;  but  her  heart  was  bitter,  because  she  had  loved 
aim. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  CASTING  OFF  OF  MOREL-THE 
TAKING  ON  OF  WILLIAM 


DURING  the  next  week  Morel's  temper  was  almost  un- 
bearable. Like  all  miners,  he  was  a  great  lover  of  medi- 
cines, which  strangely  enough,  he  would  often  pay  for 
himself. 

"You  mun  get  me  a  drop  o'  laxy  vitral,"  he  said.  "It's  a 
winder  as  we  canna  ha'e  a  sup  i'  th'  'ouse." 

So  Mrs.  Morel  bought  him  elixir  of  vitriol,  his  favourite 
first  medicine.  And  he  made  himself  a  jug  of  wormwood 
tea.  He  had  hanging  in  the  attic  great  bunches  of  dried 
herbs:  wormwood,  rue,  horehound,  elder-flowers,  parsley- 
purt,  marshmallow,  hyssop,  dandelion,  and  centuary.  Usually 
there  was  a  jug  of  one  or  other  decoction  standing  on  the 
hob,  from  which  he  drank  largely. 

"Grand!"  he  said,  smacking  his  lips  after  wormwood. 
"Grand!"  And  he  exhorted  the  children  to  try. 

"It's  better  than  any  of  your  tea  or  your  cocoa  stews," 
he  vowed.  But  they  were  not  to  be  tempted. 

This  time,  however,  neither  pills  nor  vitriol  nor  all  his 
herbs  would  shift  the  "nasty  peens  in  his  head."  He  was 
sickening  for  an  attack  of  an  inflammation  of  the  brain.  He 
had  never  been  well  since  his  sleeping  on  the  ground  when 
he  went  with  Jerry  to  Nottingham.  Since  then  he  had  drunk 
and  stormed.  Now  he  fell  seriously  ill,  and  Mrs.  Morel  had 
hirn  to  nurse.  He  was  one  of  the  worst  patients  imaginable. 
But,  in  spite  of  all,  and  putting  aside  the  fact  that  he  was 
bread-winner,  she  never  quite  wanted  him  to  die.  Still  there 
ms  one  part  of  her  wanted  him  for  herself. 

The  neighbours  were  very  good  to  her:  occasionally  some 

56 


THE  CASTING  OFF  OF  MOREL  57 

had  the  children  in  to  meals,  occasionally  some  would  do  tht 
downstairs  work  for  her,  one  would  mind  the  baby  for  a 
day.  But  it  was  a  great  drag,  nevertheless.  It  was  not  every 
day  the  neighbours  helped.  Then  she  had  nursing  of  baby 
and  husband,  cleaning  and  cooking,  everything  to  do. 
She  was  quite  worn  out,  but  she  did  what  was  wanted  of 
her. 

And  the  money  was  just  sufficient.  She  had  seventeen 
shillings  a  week  from  clubs,  and  every  Friday  Barker  and 
the  other  butty  put  by  a  portion  of  the  stall's  profits  for 
Morel's  wife.  And  the  neighbours  made  broths,  and  gave 
eggs,  and  such  invalids'  trifles.  If  they  had  not  helped  her 
so  generously  in  those  times,  Mrs.  Morel  would  never  have 
pulled  through,  without  incurring  debts  that  would  have 
dragged  her  down. 

The  weeks  passed.  Morel,  almost  against  hope,  grew 
better.  He  had  a  fine  constitution,  so  that,  once  on  the 
mend,  he  went  straight  forward  to  recovery.  Soon  he  was 
pottering  about  downstairs.  During  his  illness  his  wife  had 
spoilt  him  a  little.  Now  he  wanted  her  to  continue.  He  often 
put  his  hand  to  his  head,  pulled  down  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  and  shammed  pains  he  did  not  feel.  But  there  was  no 
deceiving  her.  At  first  she  merely  smiled  to  herself.  Then 
she  scolded  him  sharply. 

"Goodness,  man,  don't  be  so  lachrymose." 

That  wounded  him  slightly,  but  still  he  continued  to  feign 
sickness. 

"I  wouldn't  be  such  a  mardy  baby,"  said  his  wife  shortly. 

Then  he  was  indignant,  and  cursed  under  his  breath,  like 
a  boy.  He  was  forced  to  resume  a  normal  tone,  and  to  cease 
to  whine. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  state  of  peace  in  the  house  for 
some  time.  Mrs.  Morel  was  more  tolerant  of  him,  and  he, 
depending  on  her  almost  like  a  child,  was  rather  happy. 
Neither  knew  that  she  was  more  tolerant  because  she  loved 
him  less.  Up  till  this  time,  in  spite  of  all,  he  had  been  her 
husband  and  her  man.  She  had  felt  that,  more  or  less,  what 
he  did  to  himself  he  did  to  her.  Her  living  depended  on  him. 


58  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

There  were  many,  many  stages  in  the  ebbing  of  her  love  for 
him,  but  it  was  always  ebbing. 

Now,  with  the  birth  of  this  third  baby,  her  self  no  longer 
set  towards  him,  helplessly,  but  was  like  a  tide  that  scarcely 
rose,  standing  oft  from  him.  After  this  she  scarcely  desired 
him.  And,  standing  more  aloof  from  him,  not  feeling  him  so 
much  part  of  herself,  but  merely  part  of  her  circumstances, 
she  did  not  mind  so  much  what  he  did,  could  leave  him  alone. 

There  was  the  halt,  the  wistfulness  about  the  ensuing  year, 
which  is  like  autumn  in  a  man's  life.  His  wife  was  casting 
him  off,  half  regretfully,  but  relentlessly;  casting  him  off  and 
turning  now  for  love  and  life  to  the  children.  Henceforward 
he  was  more  or  less  a  husk.  And  he  half  acquiesced,  as  so 
many  men  do,  yielding  their  place  to  their  children. 

During  his  recuperation,  when  it  was  really  over  between 
them,  both  made  an  effort  to  come  back  somewhat  to  the 
old  relationship  of  the  first  months  of  their  marriage.  He 
sat  at  home  and,  when  the  children  were  in  bed,  and  she  was 
sewing— she  did  all  her  sewing  by  hand,  made  all  shirts  and 
children's  clothing— he  would  read  to  her  from  the  news- 
paper, slowly  pronouncing  and  delivering  the  words  like  a 
man  pitching  quoits.  Often  she  hurried  him  on,  giving  him 
a  phrase  in  anticipation.  And  then  he  took  her  words  humbly. 

The  silences  between  them  were  peculiar.  There  would 
be  the  swift,  slight  "cluck"  of  her  needle,  the  sharp  "pop" 
of  his  lips  as  he  let  out  the  smoke,  the  warmth,  the  sizzle  on 
the  bars  as  he  spat  in  the  fire.  Then  her  thoughts  turned  to 
William.  Already  he  was  getting  a  big  boy.  Already  ne  was 
top  of  the  class,  and  the  master  said  he  was  the  smartest  lad 
in  the  school.  She  saw  him  a  man,  young,  full  of  vigour, 
making  the  world  glow  again  for  her. 

And  Morel  sitting  there,  quite  alone,  and  having  nothing 
to  think  about,  would  be  feeling  vaguely  uncomfortable.  His 
soul  would  reach  out  in  its  blind  way  to  her  and  find  her 
gone.  He  felt  a  sort  of  emptiness,  almost  like  a  vacuum  in 
his  soul.  He  was  unsettled  and  restless.  Soon  he  could  not 
live  in  that  atmosphere,  and  he  affected  his  wife.  Both  felt 
an  oppression  on  their  breathing  when  they  were  left  to- 


THE  CASTING  OFF  OF  MOREL  59 

gether  for  some  time.  Then  he  went  to  bed  and  she  settled 
down  to  enjoy  herself  alone,  working,  thinking,  living. 

Meanwhile  another  infant  was  coming,  fruit  of  this  little 
peace  and  tenderness  between  the  separating  parents.  Paul 
was  seventeen  months  old  when  the  new  baby  was  born. 
He  was  then  a  plump,  pale  child,  quiet,  with  heavy  blue  eyes, 
and  still  the  peculiar  slight  knitting  of  the  brows.  The  last 
child  was  also  a  boy,  fair  and  bonny.  Mrs.  Morel  was  sorry 
when  she  knew  she  was  with  child,  both  for  economic  rea- 
sons and  because  she  did  not  love  her  husband;  but  not  for 
the  sake  of  the  infant. 

They  called  the  baby  Arthur.  He  was  very  pretty,  with 
a  mop  of  gold  curls,  and  he  loved  his  father  from  the  first. 
Mrs.  Morel  was  glad  this  child  loved  the  father.  Hearing 
the  miner's  footsteps,  the  baby  would  put  up  his  arms  and 
crow.  And  if  Morel  were  in  a  good  temper,  he  called  back 
immediately,  in  his  hearty,  mellow  voice: 

"What  then,  my  beauty?  I  sh'll  come  to  thee  in  a  minute." 

And  as  soon  as  he  had  taken  off  his  pit-coat,  Mrs.  Morel 
would  put  an  apron  round  the  child,  and  give  him  to  his 
father. 

"What  a  sight  the  lad  looks!"  she  would  exclaim  some- 
times, taking  back  the  baby,  that  was  smutted  on  the  face 
from  his  father's  kisses  and  play.  Then  Morel  laughed  joy- 
fully. 

"He's  a  little  collier,  bless  his  bit  o'  mutton!"  he  exclaimed. 

And  these  were  the  happy  moments  of  her  life  now,  when 
the  children  included  the  father  in  her  heart. 

Meanwhile  William  grew  bigger  and  stronger  and  more 
active,  while  Paul,  always  rather  delicate  and  quiet,  got 
slimmer,  and  trotted  after  his  mother  like  her  shadow.  He 
was  usually  active  and  interested,  but  sometimes  he  would 
have  fits  of  depression.  Then  the  mother  would  find  the  boy 
of  three  or  four  crying  on  the  sofa. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked,  and  got  no  answer. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  insisted,  getting  cross. 

"I  don't  know,"  sobbed  the  child. 

So  she  tried  to  reason  him  out  of  it,  or  to  amuse  him,  but 


6o 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


without  effect.  It  made  her  feel  beside  herself.  Then  the 
father,  always  impatient,  would  jump  from  his  chair  and 
yhout: 

"Jf  he  doesn't  stop,  I'll  smack  him  till  he  does." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  the  mother  coldly. 
And  then  she  carried  the  child  into  the  yard,  plumped  him 
into  his  little  chair,  and  said:  "Now  cry  there,  Misery!" 

And  then  a  butterfly  on  the  rhubarb-leaves  perhaps  caught 
his  eye,  or  at  last  he  cried  himself  to  sleep.  These  fits  were 
Hot  often,  but  they  caused  a  shadow  in  Mrs.  Morel's  heart, 
tind  her  treatment  of  Paul  was  different  from  that  of  the 
bther  children. 

Suddenly  one  morning  as  she  was  looking  down  the  alley 
of  the  Bottoms  for  the  barm-man,  she  heard  a  voice  calling 
Her.  It  was  the  thin  little  Mrs.  Anthony  in  brown  velvet. 

"Here,  Mrs.  Morel,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  your  Willie." 

"Oh,  do  you?"  replied  Mrs.  Morel.  "Why,  what's  the 
matter?" 

"A  lad  as  gets  'old  of  another  an'  rips  his  clothes  off'n 
'is  back,"  Mrs.  Anthony  said,  "wants  showing  something." 

"Your  Alfred's  as  old  as  my  William,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  'Appen  'e  is,  but  that  doesn't  give  him  a  right  to  get 
hold  of  the  boy's  collar,  an'  fair  rip  it  clean  off  his  back." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "I  don't  thrash  my  children, 
and  even  if  I  did,  I  should  want  to  hear  their  side  of  the  tale." 

"They'd  happen  be  a  bit  better  if  they  did  get  a  good 
hidin',"  retorted  Mrs.  Anthony.  "When  it  comes  ter  rippin' 
a  lad's  clean  collar  off'n  'is  back  a-purpose  " 

"I'm  sure  he  didn't  do  it  on  purpose,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Make  me  a  liar!"  shouted  Mrs.  Anthony. 

Mrs.  Morel  moved  away  and  closed  her  gate.  Her  hand 
trembled  as  she  held  her  mug  of  barm. 

"But  I  s'll  let  your  mester  know,"  Mrs.  Anthony  cried 
after  her. 

At  dinner-time,  when  William  had  finished  his  meal  and 
wanted  to  be  off  again— he  was  then  eleven  years  old— his 
mother  said  to  him: 

"What  did  you  tear  Alfred  Anthony's  collar  for?" 


THE  CASTING  OFF  OF  MOREL 


6l 


"When  did  I  tear  his  collar?" 
"I  don't  know  when,  but  his  mother  says  you  did." 
"Why— it  was  yesterday— an'  it  was  torn  a'ready." 
"But  you  tore  it  more." 

"Well,  I'd  got  a  cobbler  as  'ad  licked  seventeen— an'  Alfy 
Ant'ny  says: 

'Adam  an'  Eve  an'  pinch-me, 

Went  down  to  a  river  to  bade. 

Adam  an'  Eve  got  drownded, 
Who  do  yer  think  got  saved?* 

An'  so  I  says,  'Oh,  Pinch-ycz/,'  an'  so  1  pinched  'im,  an' 
'e  was  mad,  an'  so  he  snatched  my  cobbler  an'  run  off  with 
it.  An'  so  I  run  after  'im,  an'  when  I  was  gettin'  hold  of  him, 
'e  dodged,  an'  it  ripped  'is  collar.  But  I  got  my  cobbler  — " 

He  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  black  old  horse-chestnut 
hanging  on  a  string.  This  old  cobbler  had  "cobbled"— hit 
and  smashed— seventeen  other  cobblers  on  similar  strings. 
So  the  boy  was  proud  of  his  veteran. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "you  know  you've  got  no  right 
to  rip  his  collar." 

"Well,  our  mother!"  he  answered.  "I  never  meant  tr'a 
done  it— an'  it  was  on'y  an  old  indirubber  collar  as  was  torn 
a'ready." 

"Next  time,"  said  his  mother,  "you  be  more  careful.  I 
shouldn't  like  it  if  you  came  home  with  your  collar  torn  off." 
"I  don't  care,  our  mother;  I  never  did  it  a-purpose." 
The  boy  was  rather  miserable  at  being  reprimanded. 
"No— well,  you  be  more  careful." 

William  fled  away,  glad  to  be  exonerated.  And  Mrs, 
Morel,  who  hated  any  bother  with  the  neighbours,  thought 
she  would  explain  to  Mrs.  Anthony,  and  the  business  would 
be  over. 

But  that  evening  Morel  came  in  from  the  pit  looking 
very  sour.  He  stood  in  the  kitchen  and  glared  round,  but 
did  not  speak  for  some  minutes.  Then: 

"Wheer's  that  Willy?"  he  asked. 

"What  do  you  want  him  for?"  asked  Mrs.  Morel,  who 
had  guessed. 


62 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"I'll  let  'im  know  when  I  get  him,"  said  Morel,  banging 
his  pit-bottle  on  to  the  dresser. 

"I  suppose  Mrs.  Anthony's  got  hold  of  you  and  been 
yarning  to  you  about  their  Alfy's  collar,"  said  Mrs.  Morel, 
rather  sneering. 

"Niver  mind  who's  got  hold  of  me,"  said  Morel.  "When 
I  get  hold  of       I'll  make  his  bones  rattle." 

"It's  a  poor  tale,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "that  you're  so  ready 
to  side  with  any  snipey  vixen  who  likes  to  come  telling  tales 
against  your  own  children." 

"I'll  learn  'im!"  said  Morel.  "It  none  matters  to  me  whose 
lad  'e  is;  Vs  non  goin'  rippin'  an'  tearin'  about  just  as  he's  a 
mind." 

"  'Ripping  and  tearing  about'!"  repeated  Mrs.  Morel.  "He 
was  running  after  that  Alfy,  who'd  taken  his  cobbler,  and 
he  accidentally  got  hold  of  his  collar,  because  the  other 
dodged— as  an  Anthony  would." 

"I  know!"  shouted  Morel  threateningly. 

"You  would,  before  you're  told,"  replied  his  wife  bitingly. 

"Niver  you  mind,"  stormed  Morel.  "I  know  my  business." 

"That's  more  than  doubtful,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "suppos- 
ing some  loud-mouthed  creature  had  been  getting  you  to 
thrash  your  own  children." 

"I  know,"  repeated  Morel. 

And  he  said  no  more,  but  sat  and  nursed  his  bad  temper. 
Suddenly  William  ran  in,  saying: 

"Can  I  have  my  tea,  mother?" 

"Tha  can  ha'e  more  than  that!"  shouted  Morel. 

"Hold  your  noise,  man,"  said  Mrs.  Morel;  "and  don't  look 
so  ridiculous." 

"He'll  look  ridiculous  before  I've  done  wi'  him!"  shouted 
Morel,  rising  from  his  chair  and  glaring  at  his  son. 

William,  who  was  a  tall  lad  for  his  years,  but  very  sensi- 
tive, had  gone  pale,  and  was  looking  in  a  sort  of  horror  at 
his  father. 

"Go  out!"  Mrs.  Morel  commanded  her  son. 
William  had  not  the  wit  to  move.  Suddenly  Morel 
clenched  his  fist,  and  crouched. 


THE  CASTING  OFF  OF  MOREL  63 

"I'll  gfe  him  'go  out'!"  he  shouted  like  an  insane  thing. 

"What!"  cried  Mrs.  Morel,  panting  with  rage.  "You  shall 
not  touch  him  for  her  telling,  you  shall  not!" 

"Shonna  I?"  shouted  Morel.  "Shonna  I?" 

And,  glaring  at  the  boy,  he  ran  forward.  Mrs.  Morel 
sprang  in  between  them,  with  her  fist  lifted. 

"Don't  you  dareV  she  cried. 

"What!"  he  shouted,  baffled  for  the  moment.  "What!" 
She  spun  round  to  her  son. 

"G<9  out  of  the  house!"  she  commanded  him  in  fury. 

The  boy,  as  if  hypnotized  by  her,  turned  suddenly  and 
was  gone.  Morel  rushed  to  the  door,  but  was  too  late.  He 
returned,  pale  under  his  pit-dirt  with  fury.  But  now  his 
wife  was  fully  roused. 

"Only  dare!"  she  said  in  a  loud,  ringing  voice.  "Only 
dare,  milord,  to  lay  a  finger  on  that  child!  You'll  regret  it 
for  ever." 

He  was  afraid  of  her.  In  a  towering  rage,  he  sat  down. 

When  the  children  were  old  enough  to  be  left,  Mrs. 
Morel  joined  the  Women's  Guild.  It  was  a  little  club  of 
women  attached  to  the  Co-operative  Wholesale  Society, 
which  met  on  Monday  night  in  the  long  room  over  the 
grocery  shop  of  the  Bestwood  "Co-op."  The  women  were 
supposed  to  discuss  the  benefits  to  be  derived  from  co- 
operation, and  other  social  questions.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Morel 
read  a  paper.  It  seemed  queer  to  the  children  to  see  their 
mother,  who  was  always  busy  about  the  house,  sitting  writ- 
ing in  her  rapid  fashion,  thinking,  referring  to  books,  and 
writing  again.  They  felt  for  her  on  such  occasions  the 
deepest  respect. 

But  they  loved  the  Guild.  It  was  the  only  thing  to  which 
they  did  not  grudge  their  mother— and  that  partly  because 
she  enjoyed  it,  partly  because  of  the  treats  they  derived 
from  it.  The  Guild  was  called  by  some  hostile  husbands,  who 
found  their  wives  getting  too  independent,  the  "clat-fart" 
shop— that  is,  the  gossip  shop.  It  is  true,  from  off  the  basis 
of  the  Guild,  the  women  could  look  at  their  homes,  at  the 
conditions  of  their  own  lives,  and  find  fault.  So  the  colliers 


64  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

found  their  women  had  a  new  standard  of  their  own,  rather 
disconcerting.  And  also,  Mrs.  Morel  always  had  a  lot  of 
news  on  Monday  nights,  so  that  the  children  liked  William 
to  be  in  when  their  mother  came  home,  because  she  told  him 
things. 

Then,  when  the  lad  was  thirteen,  she  got  him  a  job  in  the 
"Co-op"  office.  He  was  a  very  clever  boy,  frank,  with  rather 
rough  features  and  real  viking  blue  eyes. 

"What  dost  want  ter  ma'e  a  stool-harsed  jack  on  'im  for?" 
said  Morel.  "All  he'll  do  is  to  wear  his  britches  behind  out, 
an'  earn  nowt.  What's  'e  startin'  wi'?" 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  he's  starting  with,"  said  Mrs. 
Morel. 

"It  wouldna!  Put  'im  i'  th'  pit  wi'  me,  an'  'e'U  earn  a  easy 
ten  shillin'  a  wik  from  th'  start.  But  six  shillin'  wearin'  his 
truck-end  out  on  a  stool's  better  than  ten  shillin'  i'  th'  pit  wi' 
me,  I  know." 

"He  is  not  going  in  the  pit,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "and  there's 
an  end  of  it." 

"It  wor  good  enough  for  me,  but  it's  non  good  enough 
for  'im." 

"If  your  mother  put  you  in  the  pit  at  twelve,  it's  no  reason 
why  I  should  do  the  same  with  my  lad." 

"Twelve!  It  wor  a  sight  afore  that!" 

""Whenever  it  was,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

She  was  very  proud  of  her  son.  He  went  to  the  night- 
school,  and  learned  shorthand,  so  that  by  the  time  he  was 
sixteen  he  was  the  best  shorthand  clerk  and  book-keeper 
on  the  place,  except  one.  Then  he  taught  in  the  night-school. 
But  he.  was  so  fiery  that  only  his  good-nature  and  his  size 
protected  him. 

All  the  things  that  men  do—the  decent  things— William 
did.  He  could  run  like  the  wind.  When  he  was  twelve  he 
won  a  first  prize  in  a  race— an  inkstand  of  glass,  shaped  like 
an  anvil.  It  stood  proudly  on  the  dresser,  and  gave  Mrs. 
Morel  a  keen  pleasure.  The  boy  only  ran  for  her.  He  flew 
home  with  his  anvil,  breathless,  with  a  "Look,  mother!"  That 
was  the  first  real  tribute  to  herself.  She  took  it  like  a  queen. 


THE  CASTING  OFF  OF  MOREL  65 

"How  pretty!"  she  exclaimed. 

Then  he  began  to  get  ambitious.  He  gave  all  his  money 
to  his  mother.  When  he  earned  fourteen  shillings  a  week, 
she  gave  him  back  two  for  himself,  and,  as  he  never  drank, 
he  felt  himself  rich.  He  went  about  with  the  bourgeois  of 
Bestwood.  The  townlet  contained  nothing  higher  than  the 
clergyman.  Then  came  the  bank  manager,  then  the  doctors, 
then  the  tradespeople,  and  after  that  the  hosts  of  colliers, 
William  began  to  consort  with  the  sons  of  the  chemist,  the 
schoolmaster,  and  the  tradesmen.  He  played  billiards  in  the 
Mechanics  Hall.  Also  he  danced— this  in  spite  of  his  mother. 
All  the  life  that  Bestwood  offered  he  enjoyed,  from  the 
sixpenny-hops  down  Church  Street,  to  sports  and  billiards. 

Paul  was  treated  to  dazzling  descriptions  of  all  kinds  of 
flower-like  ladies,  most  of  whom  lived  like  cut  blooms  in 
William's  heart  for  a  brief  fortnight. 

Occasionally  some  flame  would  come  in  pursuit  of  her 
errant  swain.  Mrs.  Morel  would  find  a  strange  girl  at  the 
door,  and  immediately  she  sniffed  the  air. 

"Is  Mr.  Morel  in?"  the  damsel  would  ask  appealingly. 

"My  husband  is  at  home,"  Mrs.  Morel  replied. 

"I— I  mean  young  Mr.  Morel,"  repeated  the  maiden  pain- 
fully. 

"Which  one?  There  are  several." 

Whereupon  much  blushing  and  stammering  from  the  fair 
one. 

"I— I  met  Mr.  Morel— at  Ripley,"  she  explained. 

"Oh-at  a  dance!" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  approve  of  the  girls  my  son  meets  at  dances.  And 
he  is  not  at  home." 

Then  he  came  home  angry  with  his  mother  for  having 
turned  the  girl  away  so  rudely.  He  was  a  careless,  yet  eager- 
looking  fellow,  who  walked  with  long  strides,  sometimes 
frowning,  often  with  his  cap  pushed  jollily  to  the  back  of 
his  head.  Now  he  came  in  frowning.  He  threw  his  cap  on 
to  the  sofa,  and  took  his  strong  jaw  in  his  hand,  and  glared 
down  at  his  .mother.  She  was  small,  with  her  hair  taken 


66 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


straight  back  from  her  forehead.  She  had  a  quiet  air  of 
authority,  and  yet  of  rare  warmth.  Knowing  her  son  was 
angry,  she  trembled  inwardly. 

"Did  a  lady  call  for  me  yesterday,  mother?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  about  a  lady.  There  was  a  girl  came." 

"And  why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Because  I  forgot,  simply." 

He  fumed  a  little. 

"A  good-looking  girl— seemed  a  lady?" 
"I  didn't  look  at  her." 
"Big  brown  eyes?" 

"I  did  not  look.  And  tell  your  girls,  my  son,  that  when 
they're  running  after  you,  they're  not  to  come  and  ask 
your  mother  for  you.  Tell  them  that— brazen  baggages  you 
meet  at  dancing-classes." 

"I'm  sure  she  was  a  nice  girl." 

"And  I'm  sure  she  wasn't." 

Ihere  ended  the  altercation.  Over  the  dancing  there  was 
a  great  strife  between  the  mother  and  the  son.  The  grievance 
reached  its  height  when  William  said  he  was  going  to  Huck- 
nall  Torkard— considered  a  low  town— to  a  fancy-dress  ball. 
He  was  to  be  a  Highlander.  There  was  a  dress  he  could  hire, 
which  one  of  his  friends  had  had,  and  which  fitted  him  per- 
fectly. The  Highland  suit  came  home.  Mrs.  Morel  received 
it  coldly  and  would  not  unpack  it, 

"My  suit  come?"  cried  William. 

"There's  a  parcel  in  the  front-room." 

He  rushed  in  and  cut  the  string. 

"How  do  you  fancy  your  son  in  this!"  he  said,  enrap- 
tured, showing  her  the  suit. 

"You  know  I  don't  want  to  fancy  you  in  it." 

On  the  evening  of  the  dance,  when  he  had  come  home 
to  dress,  Mrs.  Morel  put  on  her  coat  and  bonnet. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  stop  and  see  me,  mother?"  he  asked. 

"No;  I  don't  want  to  see  you,"  she  replied. 

She  was  rather  pale,  and  her  face  was  closed  and  hard. 
She  was  afraid  of  her  son's  going  the  same  way  as  his  father. 
He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  his  heart  stood  still  with  anxiety. 


THE  CASTING  OFF  OF  MOREL  6j 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  Highland  bonnet  with  its  rib- 
bons. He  picked  it  up  gleefully,  forgetting  her.  She  went 
out. 

When  he  was  nineteen  he  suddenly  left  the  Co-op  office 
and  got  a  situation  in  Nottingham.  In  his  new  place  he 
had  thirty  shillings  a  week  instead  of  eighteen.  This  was 
indeed  a  rise.  His  mother  and  his  father  were  brimmed  up 
with  pride.  Everybody  praised  William.  It  seemed  he  was 
going  to  get  on  rapidly.  Mrs.  Morel  hoped,  with  his  aid,  to 
help  her  younger  sons.  Annie  was  now  studying  to  be  a 
teacher.  Paul,  also  very  clever,  was  getting  on  well,  having 
lessons  in  French  and  German  from  his  godfather,  the 
clergyman  who  was  still  a  friend  to  Mrs.  Morel.  Arthur,  a 
spoilt  and  very  good-looking  boy,  was  at  the  Board-school, 
but  there  was  talk  of  his  trying  to  get  a  scholarship  for  the 
High  School  in  Nottingham. 

William  remained  a  year  at  his  new  post  in  Nottingham. 
He  was  studying  hard,  and  growing  serious.  Something 
seemed  to  be  fretting  him.  Still  he  went  out  to  the  dances 
and  the  river  parties.  He  did  not  drink.  The  children  were 
all  rabid  teetotallers.  He  came  home  very  late  at  night,  and 
sat  yet  longer  studying.  His  mother  implored  him  to  take 
more  care,  to  do  one  thing  or  another. 

"Dance,  if  you  want  to  dance,  my  son;  but  don't  think 
you  can  work  in  the  office,  and  then  amuse  yourself,  and 
then  study  on  top  of  all.  You  can't;  the  human  frame  won't 
stand  it.  Do  one  thing  or  the  other— amuse  yourself  or  learn 
Latin;  but  don't  try  to  do  both." 

Then  he  got  a  place  in  London,  at  a  hundred  and  twenty 
a  year.  This  seemed  a  fabulous  sum.  His  mother  doubted 
almost  whether  to  rejoice  or  to  grieve. 

"They  want  me  in  Lime  Street  on  Monday  week,  mother," 
he  cried,  his  eyes  blazing  as  he  read  the  letter.  Mrs.  Morel  felt 
everything  go  silent  inside  her.  He  read  the  letter:  "  'And 
will  you  reply  by  Thursday  whether  you  accept.  Yours 
faithfully—'  They  want  me,  mother,  at  a  hundred  and  twenty 
a  year,  and  don't  even  ask  to  see  me.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I 
could  do  it!  Think  of  me  in  London!  And  I  can  give  you 


68 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


twenty  pounds  a  year,  mater.  We  s'll  all  be  rolling  in 
money." 

"We  shall,  my  son,"  she  answered  sadly. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  she  might  be  more  hurt 
at  his  going  away  than  glad  of  his  success.  Indeed,  as  the 
days  drew  near  for  his  departure,  her  heart  began  to  close 
and  grow  dreary  with  despair.  She  loved  him  so  much!  More 
than  that,  she  hoped  in  him  so  much.  Almost  she  lived  by 
him.  She  liked  to  do  things  for  him;  she  liked  to  put  a  cup 
for  his  tea  and  to  iron  his  collar,  of  which  he  was  so  proud. 
It  was  a  joy  to  her  to  have  him  proud  of  his  collars.  There 
was  no  laundry.  So  she  used  to  rub  away  at  them  with  her 
little  convex  iron,  to  polish  them,  till  they  shone  from  the 
sheer  pressure  of  her  arm.  Now  she  would  not  do  it  for  him. 
Now  he  was  going  away.  She  felt  almost  as  if  he  were  going 
as  well  out  of  her  heart.  He  did  not  seem  to  leave  her  in- 
habited with  himself.  That  was  the  grief  and  the  pain  to  her. 
He  took  nearly  all  himself  away. 

A  few  days  before  his  departure— he  was  just  twenty- 
he  burned  his  love-letters.  They  had  hung  on  a  file  at  the 
top  of  the  kitchen  cupboard.  From  some  of  them  he  had 
read  extracts  to  his  mother.  Some  of  them  she  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  read  herself.  But  most  were  too  trivial. 

Now,  on  the  Saturday  morning  he  said: 

"Come  on,  'Postle,  let's  go  through  my  letters,  and  you 
can  have  the  birds  and  flowers." 

Mrs.  Morel  had  done  her  Saturday's  work  on  the  Friday, 
because  he  was  having  &  last  day's  holiday.  She  was  making 
him  a  rice  cake,  which  he  loved,  to  take  with  him.  He  was 
scarcely  conscious  that  she  was  so  miserable. 

He  took  the  first  letter  off  the  file.  It  was  mauve-tinted, 
and  had  purple  and  green  thistles.  William  sniffed  the  page. 

"Nice  scent!  Smell." 

And  he  thrust  the  sheet  under  Paul's  nose. 
"Urn!"  said  Paul,  breathing  in.  "What  d'you  call  it? 
Smell,  mother." 

His  mother  ducked  her  small,  fine  nose  down  to  the  paper. 
"/  don't  want  to  smell  their  rubbish,"  she  said,  sniffing. 


THE  CASTING  OFF  OF  MOREL  69 

"This  girl's  father,"  said  William,  "is  as  rich  as  Croesus.  He 
owns  property  without  end.  She  calls  me  Lafayette,  because 
I  know  French.  'You  will  see,  I've  forgiven  you'— I  like  her 
forgiving  me.  'I  told  mother  about  you  this  morning,  and 
she  will  have  much  pleasure  if  you  come  to  tea  on  Sunday, 
but  she  will  have  to  get  father's  consent  also.  I  sincerely  hope 
he  will  agree.  I  will  let  you  know  how  it  transpires.  If,  how- 
ever, you  '  " 

"  'Let  you  know  how  it'  what?"  interrupted  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  'Transpires'— oh  yes!" 

"  'Transpires'!"  repeated  Mrs.  Morel  mockingly.  "I 
thought  she  was  so  well  educated!" 

William  felt  slightly  uncomfortable,  and  abandoned  this 
maiden,  giving  Paul  the  corner  with  the  thistles.  He  con- 
tinued to  read  extracts  from  his  letters,  some  of  which 
amused  his  mother,  some  of  which  saddened  her  and  made 
her  anxious  for  him. 

"My  lad,"  she  said,  "they're  very  wise.  They  know  they've 
only  got  to  flatter  your  vanity,  and  you  press  up  to  them 
like  a  dog  that  has  its  head  scratched." 

"Well,  they  can't  go  on  scratching  for  ever,"  he  replied. 
"And  when  they've  done,  I  trot  away." 

"But  one  day  you'll  find  a  string  round  your  neck  that 
you  can't  pull  off,"  she  answered. 

"Not  me!  I'm  equal  to  any  of  'em,  mater,  they  needn't 
flatter  themselves." 

"You  flatter  yourself"  she  said  quietly. 

Soon  there  was  a  heap  of  twisted  black  pages,  all  that 
remained  of  the  file  of  scented  letters,  except  that  Paul  had 
thirty  or  forty  pretty  tickets  from  the  corners  of  the  note- 
paper— swallows  and  forget-me-nots  and  ivy  sprays.  And 
William  went  to  London,  to  start  a  new  file. 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

CHAPTER  IV 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL 


PAUL  would  be  built  like  his  mother,  slightly  and  rather 
small.  His  fair  hair  went  reddish,  and  then  dark  brown; 
his  eyes  were  grey.  He  was  a  pale,  quiet  child,  with  eyes 
that  seemed  to  listen,  and  with  a  full,  dropping  underlip. 

As  a  rule  he  seemed  old  for  his  years.  He  was  so  conscious 
of  what  other  people  felt,  particularly  his  mother.  When 
she  fretted  he  understood,  and  could  have  no  peace.  His 
soul  seemed  always  attentive  to  her. 

As  he  grew  older  he  became  stronger.  William  was  too 
far  removed  from  him  to  accept  him  as  a  companion.  So  the 
smaller  boy  belonged  at  first  almost  entirely  to  Annie.  She 
was  a  tom-boy  and  a  "flybie-skybie,"  as  her  mother  called 
her.  But  she  was  intensely  fond  of  her  second  brother. 
So  Paul  was  towed  round  at  the  heels  of  Annie,  sharing 
her  game.  She  raced  wildly  at  lerky  with  the  other  young 
wild-cats  of  the  Bottoms.  And  always  Paul  flew  beside  her, 
living  her  share  of  the  game,  having  as  yet  no  part  of 
his  own.  He  was  quiet  and  not  noticeable.  But  his  sister 
adored  him.  He  always  seemed  to  care  for  things  if  she 
wanted  him  to. 

She  had  a  big  doll  of  which  she  was  fearfully  proud, 
though  not  so  fond.  So  she  laid  the  doll  on  the  sofa,  and 
covered  it  with  an  antimacassar,  to  sleep.  Then  she  forgot  it. 
Meantime  Paul  must  practise  jumping  off  the  sofa  arm.  So 
he  jumped  crash  into  the  face  of  the  hidden  doll.  Annie 
rushed  up,  uttered  a  loud  wail,  and  sat  down  to  weep  a 
dirge.  Paul  remained  quite  still. 

"You  couldn't  tell  it  was  there,  mother;  you  couldn't  tell 
it  was  there,"  he  repeated  over  and  over.  So  long  as  Annie 
wept  for  the  doll  he  sat  helpless  with  misery.  Her  grief  wore 

70 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  7 1 

itself  out.  She  forgave  her  brother— he  was  so  much  upset. 
But  a  day  or  two  afterwards  she  was  shocked. 

"Let's  make  a  sacrifice  of  Arabella,"  he  said.  "Let's  burn 
her." 

She  was  horrified,  yet  rather  fascinated.  She  wanted  to  see 
what  the  boy  would  do.  He  made  an  altar  of  bricks,  pulled 
some  of  the  shavings  out  of  Arabella's  body,  put  the  waxen 
fragments  into  the  hollow  face,  poured  on  a  little  paraffin, 
and  set  the  whole  thing  alight.  He  watched  with  wicked 
satisfaction  the  drops  of  wax  melt  off  the  broken  forehead 
of  Arabella,  and  drop  like  sweat  into  the  flame.  So  long 
as  the  stupid  big  doll  burned  he  rejoiced  in  silence.  At 
the  end  he  poked  among  the  embers  with  a  stick,  fished 
out  the  arms  and  legs,  all  blackened,  and  smashed  them  under 
stones. 

"That's  the  sacrifice  of  Missis  Arabella,"  he  said.  "An' 
I'm  glad  there's  nothing  left  of  her." 

Which  disturbed  Annie  inwardly,  although  she  could  say 
nothing.  He  seemed  to  hate  the  doll  so  intensely,  because 
he  had  broken  it. 

All  the  children,  but  particularly  Paul,  were  peculiarly 
against  their  father,  along  with  their  mother.  Morel  con- 
tinued to  bully  and  to  drink.  He  had  periods,  months  at  a 
time,  when  he  made  the  whole  life  of  the  family  a  misery. 
Paul  never  forgot  coming  home  from  the  Band  of  Hope  one 
Monday  evening  and  finding  his  mother  with  her  eye 
swollen  and  discoloured,  his  father  standing  on  the  hearth- 
rug, feet  astride,  his  head  down,  and  William,  just  home 
from  work,  glaring  at  his  father.  There  was  a  silence  as  the 
young  children  entered,  but  none  of  the  elders  looked  round. 

William  was  white  to  the  lips,  and  his  fists  were  clenched. 
He  waited  until  the  children  were  silent,  watching  with 
children's  rage  and  hate;  then  he  said: 

"You  coward,  you  daren't  do  it  when  I  was  in." 

But  Morel's  blood  was  up.  He  swung  round  on  his  son. 
William  was  bigger,  but  Morel  was  hard-muscled,  and  mad 
with  fury. 

"Dossn't  I?"  he  shouted.  "Dossn't  I?  Ha'e  much  more  o' 


72  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

thy  chelp,  my  young  jockey,  an'  I'll  rattle  my  fist  about 
thee.  Ay,  an'  I  sholl  that,  dost  see." 

Morel  crouched  at  the  knees  and  showed  his  fist  in  an 
ugly,  almost  beast-like  fashion.  William  was  white  with  rage. 

"Will  yer?"  he  said,  quiet  and  intense.  "It  'ud  be  the  last 
time,  though." 

Morel  danced  a  little  nearer,  crouching,  drawing  back  his 
fist  to  strike.  William  put  his  fists  ready.  A  light  came  into 
his  blue  eyes,  almost  like  a  laugh.  He  watched  his  father. 
Another  word,  and  the  men  would  have  begun  to  fight. 
Paul  hoped  they  would.  The  three  children  sat  pale  on  the 
sofa. 

"Stop  it,  both  of  you,"  cried  Mrs.  Morel  in  a  hard  voice. 
"We've  had  enough  for  one  night.  And  you,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing on  to  her  husband,  "look  at  your  children!" 

Morel  glanced  at  the  sofa. 

"Look  at  the  children,  you  nasty  little  bitch!"  he  sneered. 
"Why,  what  have  /  done  to  the  children,  I  should  like  to 
know?  But  they're  like  yourself;  you've  put  'em  up  to  your 
own  tricks  and  nasty  ways— you've  learned  'em  in  it,  you 
'ave." 

She  refused  to  answer  him.  No  one  spoke.  After  a  while 
he  threw  his  boots  under  the  table  and  went  to  bed. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  have  a  go  at  him?"  said  William* 
when  his  father  was  upstairs.  "I  could  easily  have  beaten 
him." 

"A  nice  thing— your  own  father,"  she  replied. 

"  'Father 7'  "  repeated  William.  "Call  him  my  father!" 

"Well,  he  is-and  so  " 

"But  why  don't  you  let  me  settle  him?  I  could  do,  easily." 

"The  idea!"  she  cried.  "It  hasn't  come  to  that  yet." 

"No,"  he  said,  "it's  come  to  worse.  Look  at  yourself.  Why 
didn't  you  let  me  give  it  him?" 

"Because  I  couldn't  bear  it,  so  never  think  of  it,"  she  cried 
quickly. 

And  the  children  went  to  bed,  miserably. 
When  William  was  growing  up,  the  family  moved  from 
the  Bottoms  to  a  house  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  commanding 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  73 

a  view  of  the  valley,  which  spread  out  like  a  convex  cockle- 
shell, or  a  clamp-shell,  before  it.  In  front  of  the  house  was  a 
huge  old  ash-tree.  The  west  wind,  sweeping  from  Derby- 
shire, caught  the  houses  with  full  force,  and  the  tree  shrieked 
again.  Morel  liked  it. 

"It's  music,"  he  said.  "It  sends  me  to  sleep." 

But  Paul  and  Arthur  and  Annie  hated  it.  To  Paul  it  be-  ) 
came  almost  a  demoniacal  noise.  The  winter  of  their  first 
year  in  the  new  house  their  father  was  very  bad.  The  chil- 
dren played  in  the  street,  on  the  brim  of  the  wide,  dark 
valley,  until  eight  o'clock.  Then  they  went  to  bed.  Their 
mother  sat  sewing  below.  Having  such  a  great  space  in  front 
of  the  house  gave  the  children  a  feeling  of  night,  of  vastness, 
and  of  terror.  This  terror  came  in  from  the  shrieking  of  the 
tree  and  the  anguish  of  the  home  discord.  Often  Paul  would 
wake  up,  after  he  had  been  asleep  a  long  time,  aware  of  thuds 
downstairs.  Instantly  he  was  wide  awake.  Then  he  heard 
the  booming  shouts  of  his  father,  come  home  nearly  drunk, 
then  the  sharp  replies  of  his  mother,  then  the  bang,  bang  of 
his  father's  fist  on  the  table,  and  the  nasty  snarling  shout  as 
the  man's  voice  got  higher.  And  then  the  whole  was  drowned 
in  a  piercing  medley  of  shrieks  and  cries  from  the  great, 
wind-swept  ash-tree.  The  children  lay  silent  in  suspense, 
waiting  for  a  lull  in  the  wind  to  hear  what  their  father  was 
doing.  He  might  hit  their  mother  again.  There  was  a  feeling 
of  horror,  a  kind  of  bristling  in  the  darkness,  and  a  sense  of 
blood.  They  lay  with  their  hearts  in  the  grip  of  an  intense 
anguish.  The  wind  came  through  the  tree  fiercer  and  fiercer. 
All  the  cords  of  the  great  harp  hummed,  whistled,  and 
shrieked.  And  then  came  the  horror  of  the  sudden  silencet 
silence  everywhere,  outside  and  downstairs.  What  was  it? 
Was  it  a  silence  of  blood?  What  had  he  done? 

The  children  lay  and  breathed  the  darkness.  And  then, 
at  last,  they  heard  their  father  throw  down  his  boots  and 
tramp  upstairs  in  his  stockinged  feet.  Still  they  listened. 
Then  at  last,  if  the  wind  allowed,  they  heard  the  water  of 
the  tap  drumming  into  the  kettle,  which  their  mother  was 
filling  for  morning,  and  they  could  go  to  sleep  in  peace. 


74  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

So  they  were  happy  in  the  morning— happy,  very  happy 
playing,  dancing  at  night  round  the  lonely  lamp-post  in  the 
midst  of  the  darkness.  But  they  had  one  tight  place  of 
anxiety  in  their  hearts,  one  darkness  in  their  eyes,  which 
showed  all  their  lives.  / 

Paul  hated  his  father.  As  a  boy  he  had  a  fervent  private 
religion. 

"Make  him  stop  drinking,"  he  prayed  every  night.  "Lord, 
let  my  father  die,"  he  prayed  very  often.  "Let  him  not  be 
killed  at  pit,"  he  prayed  when,  after  tea,  the  father  did  not 
come  home  from  work. 

That  was  another  time  when  the  family  suffered  intensely. 
The  children  came  from  school  and  had  their  teas.  On  the 
hob  the  big  black  saucepan  was  simmering,  the  stew-jar  was 
in  the  oven,  ready  for  Morel's  dinner.  He  was  expected  at 
five  o'clock.  But  for  months  he  would  stop  and  drink  every 
night  on  his  way  from  work. 

In  the  winter  nights,  when  it  was  cold,  and  grew  dark 
early,  Mrs.  Morel  would  put  a  brass  candlestick  on  the 
table,  light  a  tallow  candle  to  save  the  gas.  The  children 
finished  their  bread-and-butter,  or  dripping,  and  were  ready 
to  go  out  to  play.  But  if  Morel  had  not  come  they  faltered. 
The  sense  of  his  sitting  in  all  his  pit-dirt,  drinking,  after  a 
long  day's  work,  not  coming  home  and  eating  and  washing, 
but  sitting,  getting  drunk,  on  an  empty  stomach,  made  Mrs. 
Morel  unable  to  bear  herself.  From  her  the  feeling  was  trans- 
mitted to  the  other  children.  She  never  suffered  alone  any 
more:  the  children  suffered  with  her. 

Paul  went  out  to  play  with  the  rest.  Down  in  the  great 
trough  of  twilight,  tiny  clusters  of  lights  burned  where  the 
pits  were.  A  few  last  colliers  straggled  up  the'  dim  field- 

Eath.  The  lamplighter  came  along.  No  more  colliers  came. 
)arkness  shut  down  over  the  valley;  work  was  gone.  It 
Was  night. 

Then  Paul  ran  anxiously  into  the  kitchen.  The  one  candle 
Still  burned  on  the  table,  the  big  fire  glowed  red.  Mrs.  Morel 
lat  alone.  On  the  hob,  the  saucepan  steamed;  the  dinner-plate 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  75 

lay  waiting  on  the  table.  All  the  room  was  full  of  the  bense 
of  waiting,  waiting  for  the  man  who  was  sitting  in  his  pit- 
dirt,  dinnerless,  some  mile  away  from  home,  across  the 
darkness,  drinking  himself  drunk.  Paul  stood  in  the  doorway. 
"Has  my  dad  come?"  he  asked. 

"You  can  see  he  hasn't,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  cross  with  the 
futility  of  the  question. 

Then  the  boy  dawdled  about  near  his  mother.  They 
shared  the  same  anxiety.  Presently  Mrs.  Morel  went  out 
and  strained  the  potatoes. 

"They're  ruined  and  black,"  she  said;  "but  what  do  I 
care?" 

Not  many  words  were  spoken.  Paul  almost  hated  his 
mother  for  suffering  because  his  father  did  not  come  home 
from  work. 

"What  do  you  bother  yourself  for?"  he  said.  "If  he  wants 
to  stop  and  get  drunk,  why  don't  you  let  him?" 

"Let  him!"  flashed  Mrs.  Morel.  "You  may  well  say  let 
him.' " 

She  knew  that  the  man  who  stops  on  the  way  home  from 
work  is  on  a  quick  way  to  ruining  himself  and  his  home. 
The  children  were  yet  young,  and  depended  on  the  bread- 
winner. William  gave  her  the  sense  of  relief,  providing  her 
at  last  with  someone  to  turn  to  if  Morel  failed.  But  the  tense 
atmosphere  of  the  room  on  these  waiting  evenings  was  the 
same. 

The  minutes  ticked  away.  At  six  o'clock  still  the  cloth  lay 
on  the  table,  still  the  dinner  stood  waiting,  still  the  sams 
sense  of  anxiety  and  expectation  in  the  room.  The  boy  could 
not  stand  it  any  longer.  He  could  not  go  out  and  play.  So 
he  ran  in  to  Mrs.  Inger,  next  door  but  one,  for  her  to  talk 
to  him.  She  had  no  children.  Her  husband  was  good  to  her, 
but  was  in  a  shop,  and  came  home  late.  So,  when  she  saw 
the  lad  at  the  door,  she  called: 

"Come  in,  Paul." 

The  two  sat  talking  for  some  time,  when  suddenly  the 
boy  rose,  saying: 


J  6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Well,  I'll  be  going  and  seeing  if  my  mother  wants  an 
£rrand  doing.'' 

He  pretended  to  be  perfectly  cheerful,  and  did  not  tell 
his  friend  what  ailed  him.  Then  he  ran  indoors. 

Morel  at  these  times  came  in  churlish  and  hateful. 

"This  is  a  nice  time  to  come  home,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Wha's  it  matter  to  yo'  what  time  I  come  whoam?"  he 
shouted. 

And  everybody  in  the  house  was  still,  because  he  was 
dangerous.  He  ate  his  food  in  the  most  brutal  manner  possi- 
ble, and,  when  he  had  done,  pushed  all  the  pots  in  a  heap 
away  from  him,  to  lay  his  arms  on  the  table.  Then  he  went 
to  sleep. 

Paul  hated  his  father  so.  The  collier's  small,  mean  head, 
with  its  black  hair  slightly  soiled  with  grey,  lay  on  the  bare 
arms,  and  the  face,  dirty  and  inflamed,  with  a  fleshy  nose 
and  thin,  paltry  brows,  was  turned  sideways,  asleep  with 
beer  and  weariness  and  nasty  temper.  If  anyone  entered  sud- 
denly, or  a  noise  were  made,  the  man  looked  up  and  shouted: 

"I'll  lay  my  fist  about  thy  y'ead,  I'm  tellin'  thee,  if  tha 
doesna  stop  that  clatter!  Dost  hear?" 

And  the  two  last  words,  shouted  in  a  bullying  fashion, 
asually  at  Annie,  made  the  family  writhe  with  hate  of  the 
oian. 

He  was  shut  out  from  all  family  affairs.  No  one  told  him 
anything.  The  children,  alone  with  their  mother,  told  her 
all  about  the  day's  happenings,  everything.  Nothing  had 
really  taken  place  in  them  until  it  was  told  to  their  mother. 
But  as  soon  as  the  father  came  in,  everything  stopped.  He 
was  like  the  scotch  in  the  smooth,  happy  machinery  of  the 
home.  And  he  was  always  aware  of  this  fall  of  silence  on  his 
entry,  the  shutting  off  of  life,  the  unwelcome.  But  now  it 
was  gone  too  far  to  alter. 

He  would  dearly  have  liked  the  children  to  talk  to  him, 
but  they  could  not.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Morel  would  say: 

"You  ought  to  tell  your  father." 

Paul  won  a  prize  in  a  competition  in  a  child's  paper.  Every- 
body was  highly  jubilant. 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  77 

"Now  you'd  better  tell  your  father  when  he  comes  in," 
said  Mrs.  Morel.  "You  know  how  he  carries  on  and  says 
he's  never  told  anything." 

"All  right,"  said  Paul.  But  he  would  almost  rather  have 
forfeited  the  prize  than  have  to  tell  his  father. 

"I've  won  a  prize  in  a  competition,  dad,"  he  said. 

Morel  turned  round  to  him. 

"Have  you,  my  boy?  What  sort  of  a  competition?" 

"Oh,  nothing— about  famous  women." 

"And  how  much  is  the  prize,  then,  as  you've  got?" 

"It's  a  book." 

"Oh,  indeed!" 

"About  birds." 

"Hm-hm!" 

And  that  was  all.  Conversation  was  impossible  between 
the  father  and  any  other  member  of  the  family.  He  was 
an  outsider.  He  had  denied  the  God  in  him. 

The  only  times  when  he  entered  again  into  the  life  of 
his  own  people  was  when  he  worked,  and  was  happy  at 
work.  Sometimes,  in  the  evening,  he  cobbled  the  boots  or 
mended  the  kettle  or  his  pit-bottle.  Then  he  always  wanted 
several  attendants,  and  the  children  enjoyed  it.  They  united 
with  him  in  the  work,  in  the  actual  doing  of  something, 
when  he  was  his  real  self  again. 

He  was  a  good  workman,  dexterous,  and  one  who,  when 
he  was  in  a  good  humour,  always  sang.  He  had  whole  . 
periods,  months,  almost  years,  of  friction  and  nasty  tem- 
per. Then  sometimes  he  was  jolly  again.  It  was  nice  co 
see  him  run  with  a  piece  of  red-hot  iron  into  the  scullery, 
crying:  * 

"Out  of  my  road— out  of  my  road!" 

Then  he  hammered  the  soft,  red-glowing  stuff  on  his  iron 
goose,  and  made  the  shape  he  wanted.  Or  he  sat  absorbed 
for  a  moment,  soldering.  Then  the  children  watched  with 
joy  as  the  metal  sank  suddenly  molten,  and  was  shoved  about 
against  the  nose  of  the  soldering-iron,  while  the  room  was 
full  of  a  scent  of  burnt  resin  and  hot  tin,  and  Morel  was 
.silent  and  intent  for  a  minute.  He  always  sang  when  he 


78  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

mended  boots  because  of  the  jolly  sound  of  hammering. 
And  he  was  rather  happy  when  he  sat  putting  great  patches 
on  his  moleskin  pit  trousers,  which  he  would  often  do,  con- 
sidering them  too  dirty,  and  the  stuff  too  hard,  for  his  wife 
to  mend. 

But  the  best  time  for  the  young  children  was  when  he 
made  fuses.  Morel  fetched  a  sheaf  of  long  sound  wheat- 
straws  from  the  attic.  These  he  cleaned  with  his  hand,  till 
each  one  gleamed  like  a  stalk  of  gold,  after  which  he  cut  the 
straws  into  lengths  of  about  six  inches,  leaving,  if  he  could, 
a  notch  at  the  bottom  of  each  piece.  He  always  had  a  beauti- 
fully sharp  knife  that  could  cut  a  straw  clean  without  hurting 
it.  Then  he  set  in  the  middle  of  the  table  a  heap  of  gun- 
powder, a  little  pile  of  black  grains  upon  the  white-scrubbed 
board.  He  made  and  trimmed  the  straws  while  Paul  and 
Annie  filled  and  plugged  them.  Paul  loved  to  see  the  black 
grains  trickle  down  a  crack  in  his  palm  into  the  mouth  of 
the  straw,  peppering  jollily  downwards  till  the  straw  was 
full.  Then  he  bunged  up  the  mouth  with  a  bit  of  soap— 
which  he  got  on  his  thumb-nail  from  a  pat  in  a  saucer— and 
the  straw  was  finished. 

"Look,  dad!"  he  said. 

"That's  right,  my  beauty,"  replied  Morel,  who  was 
peculiarly  lavish  of  endearments  to  his  second  son.  Paul 
popped  the  fuse  into  the  powder-tin,  ready  for  the  morn- 
ing, when  Morel  would  take  it  to  the  pit,  and  use  it  to  fire 
a  shot  that  would  blast  the  coal  down. 

Meantime  Arthur,  still  fond  of  his  father,  would  lean  on 
the  arm  of  Morel's  chair,  and  say: 

"Tell  us  about  down  pit,  daddy."  ✓ 

This  Morel  loved  to  do. 

"Well,  there's  one  little  'oss— we  call  'im  Taffy,"  he  would 
begin.  "An'  he's  a  fawce  un!" 

Morel  had  a  warm  way  of  telling  a  story.  He  made  one 
feel  Taffy's  cunning. 

"He's  a  brown  un,"  he  would  answer,  "an'  not  very  high. 
Well,  he  comes  i'  th'  stall  wi'  a  rattle,  an'  then  yo'  'ear  'im 
sneeze. 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  79 

"  'Ello,  Taff,'  you  say,  'what  art  sneezin'  for?  Bin  ta'ein' 
some  snuff?' 

"An'  'e  sneezes  again.  Then  he  slives  up  an'  shoves  'is  'ead 
on  yer,  that  cadin'. 
,   "  'What's  want,  Taff?'  yo'  say." 

"And  what  does  he?"  Arthur  always  asked. 

"He  wants  a  bit  o'  bacca,  my  duckey." 

This  story  of  Taffy  would  go  on  interminably,  and  every- 
body loved  it. 

Or  sometimes  it  was  a  new  tale. 

"An'  what  dost  think,  my  darlin'?  When  I  went  to  put 
my  coat  on  at  snap-time,  what  should  go  runnin'  up  my  arm 
but  a  mouse. 

"  'Hey  up,  theer!'  I  shouts. 

"An'  I  wor  just  in  time  ter  get  'im  by  th'  tail." 

"And  did  you  kill  it?" 

"I  did,  for  they're  a  nuisance.  The  place  is  fair  snied  wi" 
em. 

"An'  what  do  they  live  on?" 

"The  corn  as  the  'osses  drops— an'  they'll  get  in  your 
pocket  an'  eat  your  snap,  if  you'll  let  'em— no  matter  where 
yo'  hing  your  coat— the  slivin',  nibblin'  little  nuisances,  for 
they  are." 

These  happy  evenings  could  not  take  place  unless  Morel 
had  some  job  to  do.  And  then  he  always  went  to  bed  very 
early,  often  before  the  children.  There  was  nothing  remain- 
ing for  him  to  stay  up  for,  when  he  had  finished  tinkering, 
and  had  skimmed  the  headlines  of  the  newspaper. 

And  the  children  felt  secure  when  their  father  was  in 
bed.  They  lay  and  talked  softly  awhile.  Then  they  started 
as  the  lights  went  suddenly  sprawling  over  the  ceiling  from 
the  lamps  that  swung  in  the  hands  of  the  colliers  tramping 
by  outside,  going  to  take  the  nine  o'clock  shift.  They  listened 
to  the  voices  of  the  men,  imagined  them  dipping  down  into 
the  dark  valley.  Sometimes  they  went  to  the  window  and 
watched  the  three  or  four  lamps  growing  tinier  and  tinier 
swaying  down  the  fields  in  the  darkness.  Then  it  was  a  joj 
to  rush  back  to  bed  and  cuddle  closely  in  the  warmth. 


8o 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


Paul  was  rather  a  delicate  boy,  subject  to  bronchitis.  The 
others  were  all  quite  strong;  so  this  was  another  reason  for 
his  mother's  difference  in  feeling  for  him.  One  day  he  came 
home  at  dinner-time  feeling  ill.  But  it  was  not  a  family  to 
make  any  fuss. 

" What's  the  matter  with  youV  his  mother  asked  sharply. 

"Nothing,"  he  replied. 

But  he  ate  no  dinner. 

"If  you  eat  no  dinner,  you're  not  going  to  school/7  she 
said. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 
"That's  why." 

So  after  dinner  he  lay  down  on  the  sofa,  on  the  warm 
chintz  cushions  the  children  loved.  Then  he  fell  into  a  kind 
of  doze.  That  afternoon  Mrs.  Morel  was  ironing.  She  listened 
to  the  small,  restless  noise  the  boy  made  in  his  throat  as  she 
worked.  Again  rose  in  her  heart  the  old,  almost  weary  feel- 
ing towards  him.  She  had  never  expected  him  to  live.  Anr 
yet  he  had  a  great  vitality  in  his  young  body.  Perhaps  it 
would  have  been  a  little  relief  to  her  if  he  had  died.  She 
always  felt  a  mixture  of  anguish  in  her  love  for  him. 

He,  in  his  semi-conscious  sleep,  was  vaguely  aware  of  the 
clatter  of  the  iron  on  the  iron-stand,  of  the  faint  thud,  thud 
on  the  ironing-board.  Once  roused,  he  opened  his  eyes  to 
see  his  mother  standing  on  the  hearthrug  with  the  hot  iron 
near  her  cheek,  listening,  as  it  were,  to  the  heat.  Her  still 
face,  with  the  mouth  closed  tight  from  suffering  and  dis- 
illusion and  self-denial,  and  her  nose  the  smallest  bit  on  one 
side,  and  her  blue  eyes  so  young,  quick,  and  warm,  made 
his  heart  contract  with  love.  When  she  was  quiet,  so,  she 
looked  brave  and  rich  with  life,  but  as  if  she  had  been  done 
out  of  her  rights.  It  hurt  the  boy  keenly,  this  feeling  about 
her  that  she  had  never  had  her  life's  fulfilment:  and  his  own 
incapability  to  make  up  to  her  hurt  him  with  a  sense  of 
impotence,  yet  made  hhn  patiently  dogged  inside.  It  was  his 
childish  aim. 

She  spat  on  the  iron,  and  a  little  ball  of  spit  bounded, 
raced  off  the  dark,  glossy  surface.  Then,  kneeling,  she 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  8 1 

rubbed  the  iron  on  the  sack  lining  of  the  hearthrug  vigor- 
ously. She  was  warm  in  the  ruddy  firelight.  Paul  loved  the 
way  she  crouched  and  put  her  head  on  one  side.  Her  move- 
ments were  light  and  quick.  It  was  always  a  pleasure 
to  watch  her.  Nothing  she  ever  did,  no  movement  she 
ever  made,  could  have  been  found  fault  with  by  her 
children.  The  room  was  warm  and  full  of  the  scent  of  hot 
linen.  Later  on  the  clergyman  came  and  talked  softly  with 
her. 

Paul  was  laid  up  with  an  attack  of  bronchitis.  He  did  not 
mind  much.  What  happened  happened,  and  it  was  no  good 
kicking  against  the  pricks.  He  loved  the  evenings,  after  eight 
o'clock,  when  the  light  was  put  out,  and  he  could  watch  the 
fire-flames  spring  over  the  darkness  of  the  walls  and  ceiling; 
could  watch  huge  shadows  waving  and  tossing,  till  the  room 
seemed  full  of  men  who  battled  silently. 

On  retiring  to  bed,  the  father  would  come  into  the  sick- 
room. He  was  always  very  gentle  if  anyone  were  ill.  But 
he  disturbed  the  atmosphere  for  the  boy. 

"Are  ter  asleep,  my  darlin'?"  Morel  asked  softly. 

"No;  is  my  mother  comin'?" 

"She's  just  finishin'  foldin'  the  clothes.  Do  you  want  any- 
thing?" Morel  rarely  "thee'd"  his  son. 

"I  don't  want  nothing.  But  how  long  will  she  be?" 
"Not  long,  my  duckie." 

The  father  waited  undecidedly  on  the  hearthrug  for  a 
moment  or  two.  He  felt  his  son  did  not  want  him.  Then  he 
went  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  said  to  his  wife: 

"This  childt's  axin'  for  thee;  how  long  art  goin'  to  be?" 

"Until  I've  finished,  good  gracious!  Tell  him  to  go  to 
sleep." 

"She  says  you're  to  go  to  sleep,"  the  father  repeated  gently 
to  Paul. 

"Well,  I  want  her  to  come,"  insisted  the  boy. 
"He  says  he  can't  go  off  till  you  come,"  Morel  called 
downstairs. 

"Eh,  dear!  I  shan't  be  long.  And  do  stop  shouting  down- 
stairs. There's  the  other  children  " 


82 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


Then  Morel  came  again,  and  crouched  before  the  bed- 
room fire.  He  loved  a  fire  dearly. 

"She  says  she  won't  be  long,"  he  said. 

He  loitered  about  indefinitely.  The  boy  began  to  get 
feverish  with  irritation.  His  father's  presence  seemed  to 
aggravate  all  his  sick  impatience.  At  last  Morel,  after  having 
stood  looking  at  his  son  awhile,  said  softly: 

"Good-night,  my  darling." 

"Good-night,"  Paul  replied,  turning  round  in  relief  to 
be  alone. 

Paul  loved  to  sleep  with  his  mother.  Sleep  is  still  most  per- 
fect, in  spite  of  hygienists,  when  it  is  shared  with  a  beloved. 
The  warmth,  the  security  and  peace  of  soul,  the  utter  com- 
fort from  the  touch  of  the  other,  knits  the  sleep,  so  that  it 
takes  the  body  and  soul  completely  in  its  healing.  Paul  lay 
against  her  and  slept,  and  got  better;  whilst  she,  always  a 
bad  sleeper,  fell  later  on  into  a  profound  sleep  that  seemed 
to  give  her  faith. 

In  convalescence  he  would  sit  up  in  bed,  see  the  fluffy 
horses  feeding  at  the  troughs  in  the  field,  scattering  their 
hay  on  the  trodden  yellow  snow;  watch  the  miners  troop 
home— small,  black  figures  trailing  slowly  in  gangs  across 
the  white  field.  Then  the  night  came  up  in  dark  blue  vapour 
from  the  snow. 

In  convalescence  everything  was  wonderful.  The  snow- 
flakes,  suddenly  arriving  on  the  window-pane,  clung  there 
a  moment  like  swallows,  then  were  gone,  and  a  drop  of 
water  was  crawling  down  the  glass.  The  snowflakes  whirled 
round  the  corner  of  the  house,  like  pigeons  dashing  by. 
Away  across  the  valley  the  little  black  train  crawled  doubt- 
fully over  the  great  whiteness. 

While  they  were  so  poor,  the  children  were  delighted 
if  they  could  do  anything  to  help  economically.  Annie  and 
Paul  and  Arthur  went  out  early  in  the  morning,  in  summer, 
looking  for  mushrooms,  hunting  through  the  wet  grass,  from 
which  the  larks  were  rising,  for  the  white-skinned,  wonder- 
ful naked  bodies  crouched  secretly  in  the  green.  And  if  they 
got  half  a  pound  they  felt  exceedingly  happy:  there  was  the 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  83 

joy  of  finding  something,  the  joy  of  accepting  something 
straight  from  the  hand  of  Nature,  and  the  joy  of  contribut- 
ing to  the  family  exchequer. 

But  the  most  important  harvest,  after  gleaning  for 
frumenty,  was  the  blackberries.  Mrs.  Morel  must  buy  fruit 
for  puddings  on  the  Saturdays;  also  she  liked  blackberries. 
So  Paul  and  Arthur  scoured  the  coppices  and  woods  and 
old  quarries,  so  long  as  a  blackberry  was  to  be  found,  every 
week-end  going  on  their  search.  In  that  region  of  mining 
villages  blackberries  became  a  comparative  rarity.  But  Paul 
hunted  far  and  wide.  He  loved  being  out  in  the  country, 
among  the  bushes.  But  he  also  could  not  bear  to  go  home  to 
his  mother  empty.  That,  he  felt,  would  disappoint  her,  and 
he  would  have  died  rather. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  would  exclaim  as  the  lads  came 
in,  late,  and  tired  to  death,  and  hungry,  "wherever  have 
you  been?" 

"Well,"  replied  Paul,  "there  wasn't  any,  so  we  went  over 
Misk  Hills.  And  look  here,  our  mother!" 

She  peeped  into  the  basket. 

"Now,  those  are  fine  ones!"  she  exclaimed. 

"And  there's  over  two  pounds— isn't  there  over  two 
pounds?" 

She  tried  the  basket. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  doubtfully. 

Then  Paul  fished  out  a  little  spray.  He  always  brought  her 
one  spray,  the  best  he  could  find. 

"Pretty!"  she  said,  in  a  curious  tone,  of  a  woman  accepting 
a  love-token. 

The  boy  walked  all  day,  went  miles  and  miles,  rather  than 
own  himself  beaten  and  come  home  to  her  empty-handed. 
She  never  realized  this,  whilst  he  was  young.  She  was  a 
woman  who  waited  for  her  children  to  grow  up.  And  Wil- 
liam occupied  her  chiefly. 

But  when  William  went  to  Nottingham,  and  was  not  so 
much  at  home,  the  mother  made  a  companion  of  Paul.  The 
latter  was  unconsciously  jealous  of  his  brother,  and  William 
was  jealous  of  him.  At  the  same  time,  they  were  good  friends. 


84  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Mrs.  Morel's  intimacy  with  her  second  son  was  more 
subtle  and  fine,  perhaps  not  so  passionate  as  with  her  eldest. 
It  was  the  rule  that  Paul  should  fetch  the  money  on  Friday 
afternoons.  The  colliers  of  the  five  pits  were  paid  on  Fri- 
days, but  not  individually.  All  the  earnings  of  each  stall  were 
put  down  to  the  chief  butty,  as  contractor,  and  he  divided 
the  wages  again,  either  in  the  public-house  or  in  his  own 
home.  So  that  the  children  could  fetch  the  money,  school 
closed  early  on  Friday  afternoons.  Each  of  the  Morel  chil- 
dren—William, then  Annie,  then  Paul— had  fetched  the 
money  on  Friday  afternoons,  until  they  went  themselves  to 
work.  Paul  used  to  set  off  at  half-past  three,  with  a  little 
calico  bag  in  his  pocket.  Down  all  the  paths,  women,  girls, 
children,  and  men  were  seen  trooping  to  the  offices. 

These  offices  were  quite  handsome:  a  new,  red-brick 
building,  almost  like  a  mansion,  standing  in  its  own  well-kept 
grounds  at  the  end  of  Greenhill  Lane.  The  waiting-room 
was  the  hall,  a  long,  bare  room  paved  with  blue  brick,  and 
having  a  seat  all  round,  against  the  wall.  Here  sat  the  colliers 
in  their  pit-dirt.  They  had  come  up  early.  The  women  and 
children  usually  loitered  about  on  the  red  gravel  paths.  Paul 
always  examined  the  grass  border,  and  the  big  grass  bank, 
because  in  it  grew  tiny  pansies  and  tiny  forget-me-nots. 
There  was  a  sound  of  many  voices.  The  women  had 
on  their  Sunday  hats.  The  girls  chattered  loudly.  Little 
dogs  ran  here  and  there.  The  green  shrubs  were  silent  all 
around. 

Then  from  inside  came  the  cry  "Spinney  Park— Spinney 
Park."  All  the  folk  for  Spinney  Park  trooped  inside.  When 
it  was  time  for  Bretty  to  be  paid,  Paul  went  in  among  the 
crowd.  The  pay-room  was  quite  small.  A  counter  went 
across,  dividing  it  into  half.  Behind  the  counter  stood  two 
men— Mr.  Braithwaite  and  his  clerk,  Mr.  Winterbottom.  Mr. 
Braithwaite  was  large,  somewhat  of  the  stern  patriarch  in 
Appearance,  having  a  rather  thin  white  beard.  He  was  usually 
muffled  in  an  enormous  silk  neckerchief,  and  right  up  to  the 
hot  summer  a  huge  fire  burned  in  the  open  grate.  No  window 
was  open.  Sometimes  in  winter  the  air  scorched  the  throats 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  85 

of  the  people,  coming  in  from  the  freshness.  Mr.  Winter- 
bottom  was  rather  small  and  fat,  and  very  bald.  He  made  re- 
marks that  were  not  witty,  whilst  his  chief  launched  forth 
patriarchal  admonitions  against  the  colliers. 

The  room  was  crowded  with  miners  in  their  pit-dirt,  men 
who  had  been  home  and  changed,  and  women,  and  one  or 
two  children,  and  usually  a  dog.  Paul  was  quite  small,  so  it 
was  often  his  fate  to  be  jammed  behind  the  legs  of  the  men, 
near  the  fire  which  scorched  him.  He  knew  the  order  of  the 
names— they  went  according  to  stall  number. 

"Holliday,"  came  the  ringing  voice  of  Mr.  Braithwaite. 
Then  Mrs.  Holliday  stepped  silently  forward,  was  paid, 
drew  aside. 

"Bower— John  Bower." 

A  boy  stepped  to  the  counter.  Mr.  Braithwaite,  large  and 
irascible,  glowered  at  him  over  his  spectacles. 
"John  Bower!"  he  repeated. 
"It's  me,"  said  the  boy. 

"Why,  you  used  to  'ave  a  different  nose  than  that,"  said 
glossy  Mr.  Winterbottom,  peering  over  the  counter.  The 
people  tittered,  thinking  of  John  Bower  senior. 

"How  is  it  your  father's  not  come?"  said  Mr.  Braithwaite, 
in  a  large  and  magisterial  voice. 

"He's  badly,"  piped  the  boy. 

"You  should  tell  him  to  keep  off  the  drink,"  pronounced 
the  great  cashier. 

"An'  niver  mind  if  he  puts  his  foot  through  yer,"  said 
a  mocking  voice  from  behind. 

All  the  men  laughed.  The  large  and  important  cashier 
looked  down  at  his  next  sheet. 

"Fred  Pilkington!"  he  called,  quite  indifferent. 

Mr.  Braithwaite  was  an  important  shareholder  in  the  firm. 

Paul  knew  his  turn  was  next  but  one,  and  his  heart  began 
to  beat.  He  was  pushed  against  the  chimney-piece.  His  calves 
were  burning.  But  he  did  not  hope  to  get  through  the  wall 
of  men. 

"Walter  Morel!"  came  the  ringing  voice. 
"Here!"  piped  Paul,  small  and  inadequate. 


86 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"Morel— Walter  Morel!"  the  cashier  repeated,  his  finger 
and  thumb  on  the  invoice,  ready  to  pass  on. 

Paul  was  suffering  convulsions  of  self-consciousness,  and 
could  not  or  would  not  shout.  The  backs  of  the  men  obliter- 
ated him.  Then  Mr.  Winterbottom  came  to  the  rescue. 

"He's  here.  Where  is  he?  Morel's  lad?" 

The  fat,  red,  bald  little  man  peered  round  with  keen  eyes. 
He  pointed  at  the  fireplace.  The  colliers  looked  round, 
moved  aside,  and  disclosed  the  boy. 

"Here  he  is!"  said  Mr.  Winterbottom. 

Paul  went  to  the  counter. 

"Seventeen  pounds  eleven  and  fivepence.  Why  don't  you 
shout  up  when  you're  called?"  said  Mr.  Braithwaite.  He 
banged  on  to  the  invoice  a  five-pound  bag  of  silver,  then, 
in  a  delicate  and  pretty  movement,  picked  up  a  little  ten- 
pound  column  of  gold,  and  plumped  it  beside  the  silver.  The 
gold  slid  in  a  bright  stream  over  the  paper.  The  cashier  fin- 
ished counting  off  the  money;  the  boy  dragged  the  whole 
down  the  counter  to  Mr.  Winterbottom,  to  whom  the  stop- 
pages for  rent  and  tools  must  be  paid.  Here  he  suffered  again. 

"Sixteen  an'  six,"  said  Mr.  Winterbottom. 

The  lad  was  too  much  upset  to  count.  He  pushed  forward 
some  loose  silver  and  half  a  sovereign. 

"How  much  do  you  think  you've  given  me?"  asked  Mr. 
Winterbottom. 

The  boy  looked  at  him,  but  said  nothing.  He  had  not  the 
faintest  notion. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  tongue  in  your  head?" 

Paul  bit  his  lip,  and  pushed  forward  some  more  silver. 

"Don't  they  teach  you  to  count  at  the  Board-school?'" 
he  asked. 

"Nowt  but  Algibbra  an'  French,"  said  a  collier. 

"An'  cheek  an'  impidence,"  said  another. 

Paul  was  keeping  someone  waiting.  With  trembling 
fingers  he  got  his  money  into  the  bag  and  slid  out.  He  suf- 
fered the  tortures  of  the  damned  on  these  occasions. 

His  relief,  when  he  got  outside,  and  was  walking  along 
the  Mansfield  Road,  was  infinite.  On  the  park  wall  the 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  87 

mosses  were  green.  There  were  some  gold  and  some  white 
fowls  pecking  under  the  apple-trees  of  an  orchard.  The 
colliers  were  walking  home  in  a  stream.  The  boy  went  near 
the  wall,  self-consciously.  He  knew  many  of  the  men,  bu : 
could  not  recognize  them  in  their  dirt.  And  this  was  a  nev* 
torture  to  him. 

When  he  got  down  to  the  New  Inn,  at  Bretty,  his  father 
was  not  yet  come.  Mrs.  Wharmby,  the  landlady,  knew  him. 
His  grandmother,  Morel's  mother,  had  been  Mrs.  Wharm- 
by's  friend. 

"Your  father's  not  come  yet,"  said  the  landlady,  in  the 
peculiar  half-scornful,  half-patronizing  voice  of  a  woman 
who  talks  chiefly  to  grown  men.  "Sit  you  down." 

Paul  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bench  in  the  bar.  Some 
colliers  were  "reckoning"— sharing  out  their  money— in  a 
corner;  others  came  in.  They  all  glanced  at  the  boy  without 
speaking.  At  last  Morel  came;  brisk,  and  with  something  of 
an  air,  even  in  his  blackness. 

"Hello!"  he  said  rather  tenderly  to  his  son.  "Have  yov, 
bested  me?  Shall  you  have  a  drink  of  something?" 

Paul  and  all  the  children  were  bred  up  fierce  anti- 
alcoholists;  and  he  would  have  suffered  more  in  drinking  a 
lemonade  before  all  the  men  than  in  having  a  tooth  drawn, 

The  landlady  looked  at  him  de  haut  en  has,  rather  pity- 
ing, and  at  the  same  time  resenting  his  clear,  fierce  morality. 
Paul  went  home,  glowering.  He  entered  the  house  silently. 
Friday  was  baking  day,  and  there  was  usually  a  hot  bun 
His  mother  put  it  before  him. 

Suddenly  he  turned  on  her  in  a  fury,  his  eyes  flashing: 

"I'm  not  going  to  the  office  any  more,"  he  said. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  his  mother  asked  in  surprise 
His  sudden  rages  rather  amused  her. 

"I'm  not  going  any  more,"  he  declared. 

"Oh,  very  well,  tell  your  father  so." 

He  chewed  his  bun  as  if  he  hated  it. 

"I'm  not— I'm  not  going  to  fetch  the  money." 

"Then  one  of  Carlin's  children  can  go;  they'd  be  glad 
enough  of  the  sixpence,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 


88 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


This  sixpence  was  Paul's  only  income.  It  mostly  went  in 
buying  birthday  presents;  but  it  was  an  income,  and  he 
treasured  it.  But  

"They  can  have  it,  then!"  he  said.  "I  don't  want  it." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  his  mother.  "But  you  needn't  bully 
me  about  it." 

"They're  hateful,  and  common,  and  hateful,  they  are,  and 
I'm  not  going  any  more.  Mr.  Braithwaite  drops  his  'h's,'  an' 
Mr.  Winterbottom  says  'You  was.'  " 

"And  is  that  why  you  won't  go  any  more?"  smiled  Mrs. 
Morel. 

The  boy  was  silent  for  some  time.  His  face  was  pale,  his 
eyes  dark  and  furious.  His  mother  moved  about  at  her  work, 
taking  no  notice  of  him. 

"They  always  stan'  in  front  cf  me,  so's  I  can't  get  out," 
he  said. 

"Well,  my  lad,  you've  only  to  ask  them,"  she  replied. 

"An'  then  Alfred  Winterbottom  says,  'What  do  they 
teach  you  at  the  Board-school?'  " 

"They  never  taught  him  much,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "that 
is  a  fact— neither  manners  nor  wit— and  his  cunning  he  was 
born  with." 

So,  in  her  own  way,  she  soothed  him.  His  ridiculous 
hypersensitiveness  made  her  heart  ache.  And  sometimes  the 
fury  in  his  eyes  roused  her,  made  her  sleeping  soul  lift  up 
its  head  a  moment,  surprised. 

"What  was  the  cheque?"  she  asked. 

"Seventeen  pounds  eleven  and  fivepence,  and  sixteen  and 
six  stoppages,"  replied  the  boy.  "It's  a  good  week;  and  only 
five  shillings  stoppages  for  my  father." 

So  she  was  able  to  calculate  how  much  her  husband  had 
earned,  and  could  call  him  to  account  if  he  gave  her  short 
money.  Morel  always  kept  to  himself  the  secret  of  the  week's 
amount. 

Friday  was  the  baking  night  and  market  night.  It  was  the 
rule  that  Paul  should  stay  at  home  and  bake.  He  loved  to 
stop  in  and  draw  or  read;  he  was  very  fond  of  drawing. 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  89 

Annie  always  "gallivanted"  on  Friday  nights;  Arthur  was 
enjoying  himself  as  usual.  So  the  boy  remained  alone. 

Mrs.  Morel  loved  her  marketing.  In  the  tiny  market- 
place on  the  top  of  the  hill,  where  four  roads,  from  Not- 
tingham and  Derby,  Ilkeston  and  Mansfield,  meet,  many 
stalls  were  erected.  Brakes  ran  in  from  surrounding  villages. 
The  market-place  was  full  of  women,  the  streets  packed 
with  men.  It  was  amazing  to  see  so  many  men  everywhere  in 
the  streets.  Mrs.  Morel  usually  quarrelled  with  her  lace 
woman,  sympathized  with  her  fruit  man— who  was  a  gabey, 
but  his  wife  was  a  bad  un— laughed  with  the  fish  man— who 
was  a  scamp  but  so  droll— put  the  linoleum  man  in  his  place, 
was  cold  with  the  odd-wares  man,  and  only  went  to  the 
crockery  man  when  she  was  driven— or  drawn  by  the  corn* 
flowers  on  a  little  dish;  then  she  was  coldly  polite. 

"I  wondered  how  much  that  little  dish  was,"  she  said. 

"Sevenpence  to  you." 

"Thank  you." 

She  put  the  dish  down  and  walked  away;  but  she  could 
not  leave  the  market-place  without  it.  Again  she  went  by 
where  the  pots  lay  coldly  on  the  floor,  and  she  glanced  a 
the  dish  furtively,  pretending  not  to. 

She  was  a  little  woman,  in  a  bonnet  and  a  black  costume, 
Her  bonnet  was  in  its  third  year;  it  was  a  great  grievance  t<j 
Annie. 

"Mother!"  the  girl  implored,  "don't  wear  that  nubbly 
little  bonnet." 

"Then  what  else  shall  I  wear?"  replied  the  mother  tartly. 
"And  Fm  sure  it's  right  enough." 

It  had  started  with  a  tip;  then  had  had  flowers;  now  was 
reduced  to  black  lace  and  a  bit  of  jet. 

"It  looks  rather  come  down,"  said  Paul.  "Couldn't  you 
give  it  a  pick-me-up?" 

"I'll  jowl  your  head  for  impudence,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  and 
she  tied  the  strings  of  the  black  bonnet  valiantly  under  hei 
chin. 

She  glanced  at  the  dish  again.  Both  she  and  her  enemy, 


90  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

the  pot  man,  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling,  as  if  there  were 
something  between  them.  Suddenly  he  shouted: 
"Do  you  want  it  for  fivepence?" 

She  started.  Her  heart  hardened;  but  then  she  stooped 
and  took  up  the  dish. 
"I'll  have  it,"  she  said. 

"Yer'U  do  me  the  favour,  like?"  he  said.  "Yer'd  better  spit 
in  it,  like  yer  do  when  y'ave  something  give  yer." 

Mrs.  Morel  paid  him  the  fivepence  in  a  cold  manner. 

"I  don't  see  you  give  it  me,"  she  said.  "You  wouldn't  let 
me  have  it  for  fivepence  if  you  didn't  want  to." 

"In  this  flamin',  scrattlin'  place  you  may  count  yerself 
lucky  if  you  can  give  your  things  away,"  he  growled. 

"Yes;  there  are  bad  times,  and  good,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

But  she  had  forgiven  the  pot  man.  They  were  friends.  She 
dare  now  finger  his  pots.  So  she  was  happy. 

Paul  was  waiting  for  her.  He  loved  her  home-coming. 
She  was  always  her  best  so— triumphant,  tired,  laden  with 
parcels,  feeling  rich  in  spirit.  He  heard  her  quick,  light  step 
in  the  entry  and  looked  up  from  his  drawing. 

"Oh!"  she  sighed,  smiling  at  him  from  the  doorway. 

"My  word,  you  are  loaded!"  he  exclaimed,  putting  down 
his  brush. 

"I  am!"  she  gasped.  "That  brazen  Annie  said  she'd  meet 
me.  Such  a  weight!" 

She  dropped  her  string  bag  and  her  packages  on  the  table. 

"Is  the  bread  done?"  she  asked,  going  to  the  oven. 

"The  last  one  is  soaking,"  he  replied.  "You  needn't  look. 
I've  not  forgotten  it." 

"Oh,  that  pot  man!"  she  said,  closing  the  oven  door.  "You 
know  what  a  wretch  I've  said  he  was?  Well,  I  don't  think 
he's  quite  so  bad." 

"Don't  you?" 

The  boy  was  attentive  to  her.  She  took  off  her  little  black 
bonnet. 

"No.  I  think  he  can't  make  any  money— well,  it's  every- 
body's cry  alike  nowadays— and  it  makes  him  disagreeable." 
"It  would  me"  said  Paul. 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  9 1 

"Well,  one  can't  wonder  at  it.  And  he  let  me  have—how 
much  do  you  think  he  let  me  have  this  for?" 

She  took  the  dish  out  of  its  rag  of  newspaper,  and  stood 
looking  on  it  with  joy. 

"Show  me!"  said  Paul. 

The  two  stood  together  gloating  over  the  dish. 
"I  love  cornflowers  on  things,"  said  Paul. 

"Yes,  and  I  thought  of  the  teapot  you  bought  me  " 

"One  and  three,"  said  Paul. 
"Fivepence!" 

"It's  not  enough,  mother." 

"No.  Do  you  know,  I  fairly  sneaked  off  with  it.  But  Fa 
been  extravagant,  I  couldn't  afford  any  more.  And  he  needn't 
have  let  me  have  it  if  he  hadn't  wanted  to." 

"No,  he  needn't,  need  he?"  said  Paul,  and  the  two  com- 
forted each  other  from  the  fear  of  having  robbed  the  pot 
man. 

"We  c'n  have  stewed  fruit  in  it,"  said  Paul. 
"Or  custard,  or  a  jelly,"  said  his  mother. 
"Or  radishes  and  lettuce,"  said  he. 

"Don't  forget  that  bread,"  she  said,  her  voice  bright  with 
glee. 

Paul  looked  in  the  oven;  tapped  the  loaf  on  the  base. 
"It's  done,"  he  said,  giving  it  to  her. 
She  tapped  it  also. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  going  to  unpack  her  bag.  "Oh,  and 
I'm  a  wicked,  extravagant  woman.  I  know  I  s'll  come  to 
want." 

He  hopped  to  her  side  eagerly,  to  see  her  latest  extrava- 
gance. She  unfolded  another  lump  of  newspaper  and 
disclosed  some  roots  of  pansies  and  of  crimson  daisies. 

"Four  penn'orth!"  she  moaned. 

"How  cheap\"  he  cried. 

"Yes,  but  I  couldn't  afford  it  this  week  of  all  weeks." 
"But  lovely!"  he  cried. 

"Aren't  they!"  she  exclaimed,  giving  way  to  pure  joy. 
"Paul,  look  at  this  yellow  one,  isn't  it— and  a  face  just  like 
an  old  man!" 


92  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Just!"  cried  Paul,  stooping  to  sniff.  "And  smells  that  nice! 
But  he's  a  bit  splashed." 

He  ran  in  the  scullery,  came  back  with  the  flannel,  and 
carefully  washed  the  pansy. 

"Now  look  at  him  now  he's  wet!"  he  said. 

"Yes!"  she  exclaimed,  brimful  of  satisfaction. 

The  children  of  Scargill  Street  felt  quite  select.  At  the  end 
where  the  Morels  lived  there  were  not  many  young  things. 
So  the  few  were  more  united.  Boys  and  girls  played  together, 
the  girls  joining  in  the  fights  and  the  rough  games,  the  boys 
taking  part  in  the  dancing  games  and  rings  and  make-belief 
of  the  girls. 

Annie  and  Paul  and  Arthur  loved  the  winter  evenings, 
when  it  was  not  wet.  They  stayed  indoors  till  the  colliers 
were  all  gone  home,  till  it  was  thick  dark,  and  the  street 
would  be  deserted.  Then  they  tied  their  scarves  round 
their  necks,  for  they  scorned  overcoats,  as  all  the  colliers' 
children  did,  and  went  out.  The  entry  was  very  dark,  and 
at  the  end  the  whole  great  night  opened  out,  in  a  hollow- 
with  a  little  tangle  of  lights  below  where  Minton  pit  lay, 
and  another  far  away  opposite  for  Selby.  The  farthest  tiny 
lights  seemed  to  stretch  out  the  darkness  for  ever.  The 
children  looked  anxiously  down  the  road  at  the  one  lamp- 
post, which  stood  at  the  end  of  the  field  path.  If  the  little: 
luminous  space  were  deserted,  the  two  boys  felt  genuine 
desolation.  They  stood  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets 
under  the  lamp,  turning  their  backs  on  the  night,  quite 
miserable,  watching  the  dark  houses.  Suddenly  a  pinafore 
under  a  short  coat  was  seen,  and  a  long-legged  girl  came 
flying  up. 

"Where's  Billy  Pillins  an'  your  Annie  an'  Eddie  Dakin?" 
"I  don't  know." 

But  it  did  not  matter  so  much— there  were  three  now. 
They  set  up  a  game  round  the  lamp-post,  till  the  others 
rushed  up,  yelling.  Then  the  play  went  fast  and  furious. 

There  was  only  this  one  lamp-post.  Behind  was  the  great 
scoop  of  darkness,  as  if  all  the  night  were  there.  In  front, 
another  wide,  dark  way  opened  over  the  hill  brow. 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  93 

Occasionally  somebody  came  out  of  this  way  and  went  into 
the  field  down  the  path.  In  a  dozen  yards  the  night  had 
swallowed  them.  The  children  played  on. 

They  were  brought  exceedingly  close  together,  owing  to 
their  isolation.  If  a  quarrel  took  place,  the  whole  play  was 
spoilt.  Arthur  was  very  touchy,  and  Billy  Pillins— really 
Philips— was  worse.  Then  Paul  had  to  side  with  Arthur,  and 
on  Paul's  side  went  Alice,  while  Billy  Pillins  always  had 
Emmie  Limb  and  Eddie  Dakin  to  back  him  up.  Then  the  six 
would  fight,  hate  with  a  fury  of  hatred,  and  flee  home  in 
terror.  Paul  never  forgot,  after  one  of  these  fierce  internecine 
fights,  seeing  a  big  red  moon  lift  itself  up,  slowly,  between 
the  waste  road  over  the  hill -top,  steadily,  like  a  great  bird. 
And  he  thought  of  the  Bible,  that  the  moon  should  be  turned 
to  blood.  And  the  next  day  he  made  haste  to  be  friends  with 
Billy  Pillins.  And  then  the  wild,  intense  games  went  on  again 
under  the  lamp-post,  surrounded  by  so  much  darkness.  Mrs. 
Morel,  going  into  her  parlour,  would  hear  the  children 
singing  away: 

"My  shoes  are  made  of  Spanish  leather. 
My  socks  are  made  of  silk; 
I  wear  a  ring  on  every  finger, 
I  wash  myself  in  milk." 

They  sounded  so  perfectly  absorbed  in  the  game  as  theii 
voices  came  out  of  the  night,  that  they  had  the  feel  of  wild 
creatures  singing.  It  stirred  the  mother;  and  she  understood 
when  they  came  in  at  eight  o'clock,  ruddy,  with  brilliant 
eyes,  and  quick,  passionate  speech. 

They  all  loved  the  Scargill  Street  house  for  its  openness, 
for  the  great  scallop  of  the  world  it  had  in  view.  On  summer 
evenings  the  women  would  stand  against  the  field  fence, 
gossiping,  facing  the  west,  watching  the  sunsets  flare  quickly 
out,  till  the  Derbyshire  hills  ridged  across  the  crimson  far 
away,  like  the  black  crest  of  a  newt. 

In  this  summer  season  the  pits  never  turned  full  time, 
particularly  the  soft  coal.  Mrs.  Dakin,  who  lived  next  door 
to  Mrs.  Morel,  going  to  the  field  fence  to  shake  her  hearth- 


94  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

rug,  would  spy  men  coming  slowly  up  the  hill.  She  saw  at 
once  they  w7ere  colliers.  Then  she  waited,  a  tall,  thin  shrew- 
faced  woman,  standing  on  the  hill  brow,  almost  like  a  men- 
ace to  the  poor  colliers  who  were  toiling  up.  It  was  only 
eleven  o'clock.  From  the  far-off  wooded  hills  the  haze  that 
hangs  like  fine  black  crape  at  the  back  of  a  summer  morning 
had  not  yet  dissipated.  The  first  man  came  to  the  stile. 
"Chock-chock!"  went  the  gate  under  his  thrust. 

"What,  han  yer  knocked  off?"  cried  Mrs.  Dakin. 

"We  han,  missis." 

"It's  a  pity  as  they  letn  yer  goo,"  she  said  sarcastically. 
"It  is  that,"  replied  the  man. 

"Nay,  you  know  you're  flig  to  come  up  again,"  she  said. 

And  the  man  went  on.  Mrs.  Dakin,  going  up  her  yard, 
spied  Mrs.  Morel  taking  the  ashes  to  the  ash-pit. 

"I  reckon  iMinton's  knocked  off,  missis,"  she  cried. 

"Isn't  it  sickenin'!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morel  in  wrath. 

"Ha!  But  I'n  just  seed  Jont  Hutchby." 

"They  might  as  wrell  have  saved  their  shoe-leather,"  said 
Mrs.  Morel.  And  both  women  went  indoors,  disgusted. 

The  colliers,  their  faces  scarcely  blackened,  were  trooping 
home  again.  Morel  hated  to  go  back.  He  loved  the  sunny 
morning.  But  he  had  gone  to  pit  to  work,  and  to  be  sent 
home  again  spoilt  his  temper. 

"Good  gracious,  at  this  time!"  exclaimed  his  wTife,  as  he 
entered. 

"Can  I  help  it,  woman?"  he  shouted. 

"And  I've  not  done  half  enough  dinner." 

"Then  I'll  eat  my  bit  o'  snap  as  I  took  with  me,"  he  bawled 
pathetically.  He  felt  ignominious  and  sore. 

And  the  children,  coming  home  from  school,  would  won- 
der to  see  their  father  eating  with  his  dinner  the  two  thick 
slices  of  rather  dry  and  dirty  bread-and-butter  that  had  been 
to  pit  and  back. 

"What's  my  dad  eating  his  snap  for  now?"  asked  Arthur. 

"I  should  ha'e  it  holled  at  me  if  I  didna,"  snorted  Morel. 

"What  a  story!"  exclaimed  his  wife. 

"An'  is  it  goin'  to  be  wasted?"  said  Morel.  "I'm  not  such  a 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  95 

extravagant  mortal  as  you  lot,  with  your  waste.  If  I  drop  a 
bit  of  bread  at  pit,  in  all  the  dust  an'  dirt,  I  pick  it  up  an' 
eat  it." 

"The  mice  would  eat  it,"  said  Paul.  "It  wouldn't  be 
wasted." 

"Good  bread-an'-butter's  not  for  mice,  either,"  said  Morel. 
"Dirty  or  not  dirty,  I'd  eat  it  rather  than  it  should  be 
wasted." 

"You  might  leave  it  for  the  mice  and  pay  for  it  out  of 
your  next  pint,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 
"Oh,  might  I?"  he  exclaimed. 

They  were  very  poor  that  autumn.  William  had  just  gone 
away  to  London,  and  his  mother  missed  his  money.  He 
sent  ten  shillings  once  or  twice,  but  he  had  many  things  to 
pay  for  at  first.  His  letters  came  regularly  once  a  week.  He 
wrote  a  good  deal  to  his  mother,  telling  her  all  his  life,  how 
he  made  friends,  and  was  exchanging  lessons  with  a  French- 
man, how  he  enjoyed  London.  His  mother  felt  again  he 
was  remaining  to  her  just  as  when  he  was  at  home.  She 
wrote  to  him  every  week  her  direct,  rather  witty  letters.  All 
day  long,  as  she  cleaned  the  house,  she  thought  of  him.  He 
was  in  London:  he  would  do  well.  Almost,  he  was  like  her 
knight  who  wore  her  favour  in  the  battle. 

He  was  coming  at  Christmas  for  five  days.  There  had 
never  been  such  preparations.  Paul  and  Arthur  scoured  the 
land  for  holly  and  evergreens.  Annie  made  the  pretty  paper 
hoops  in  the  old-fashioned  way.  And  there  was  unheard-of 
extravagance  in  the  larder.  Mrs.  Morel  made  a  big  and 
magnificent  cake.  Then,  feeling  queenly,  she  showed  Paul 
how  to  blanch  almonds.  He  skinned  the  long  nuts  reverently, 
counting  them  all,  to  see  not  one  was  lost.  It  was  said  that 
eggs  whisked  better  in  a  cold  place.  So  the  boy  stood  in  the 
scullery,  where  the  temperature  was  nearly  at  freezing- 
point,  and  whisked  and  whisked,  and  flew  in  excitement  to 
his  mother  as  the  white  of  .egg  grew  stiff  er  and  more  snowy. 

"Just  look,  mother!  Isn't  it  lovely?" 

And  he  balanced  a  bit  on  his  nose,  then  blew  it  in  the  air. 

"Now,  don't  waste  it,"  said  the  mother. 


96  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Everybody  was  mad  with  excitement.  William  was  com- 
ing on  Christmas  Eve.  Mrs.  Morel  surveyed  her  pantry. 
There  was  a  big  plum  cake,  and  a  rice  cake,  jam  tarts,  lemon 
tarts,  and  mince-pies— two  enormous  dishes.  She  was  finish- 
ing cooking— Spanish  tarts  and  cheese-cakes.  Everywhere 
was  decorated.  The  kissing-bunch  of  berried  holly  hung 
with  bright  and  glittering  things,  spun  slowly  over  Mrs. 
Morel's  head  as  she  trimmed  her  little  tarts  in  the  kitchen. 
A  great  fire  roared.  There  was  a  scent  of  cooked  pastry.  He 
was  due  at  seven  o'clock,  but  he  would  be  late.  The  three 
children  had  gone  to  meet  him.  She  was  alone.  But  at  a 
quarter  to  seven  Morel  came  in  again.  Neither  wife  nor 
husband  spoke.  He  sat  in  his  armchair,  quite  awkward  with 
excitement,  and  she  quietly  went  on  with  her  baking.  Only 
by  the  careful  way  in  which  she  did  things  could  it  be  told 
how  much  moved  she  was.  The  clock  ticked  on. 

"What  time  dost  say  he's  coming?"  Morel  asked  for  the 
fifth  time. 

"The  train  gets  in  at  half -past  six,"  she  replied  emphati- 
cally. 

"Then  he'll  be  here  at  ten  past  seven." 

"Eh,  bless  you,  it'll  be  hours  late  on  the  Midland,"  she  said 
indifferently.  But  she  hoped,  by  expecting  him  late,  to  bring 
him  early.  Morel  went  down  the  entry  to  look  for  him. 
Then  he  came  back. 

"Goodness,  man!"  she  said.  "You're  like  an  ill-sitting  hen." 

"Hadna  you  better  be  gettin'  him  summat  t'  eat  ready?" 
asked  the  father. 

"There's  plenty  of  time,"  she  answered. 

"There's  not  so  much  as  /  can  see  on,"  he  answered,  turn- 
ing crossly  in  his  chair.  She  began  to  clear  her  table.  The 
kettle  was  singing.  They  waited  and  waited. 

Meantime  the  three  children  were  on  the  platform  at 
Sethley  Bridge,  on  the  Midland  main  line,  two  miles  from 
home.  They  waited  one  hour.  A  train  came— he  was  not 
there.  Down  the  line  the  red  and  green  lights  shone.  It  was 
Very  dark  and  very  cold. 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  97 

"Ask  him  if  the  London  train's  come,"  said  Paul  to  Annie, 
when  they  saw  a  man  in  a  tip  cap. 

"I'm  not,"  said  Annie.  "You  be  quiet—he  might  send 
us  off." 

But  Paul  was  dying  for  the  man  to  know  they  were 
expecting  someone  by  the  London  train:  it  sounded  so 
grand.  Yet  he  was  much  too  much  scared  of  broaching  any 
man,  let  alone  one  in  a  peaked  cap,  to  dare  to  ask.  The  three 
children  could  scarcely  go  into  the  waiting-room  for  fear 
of  being  sent  away,  and  for  fear  something  should  happen 
whilst  they  were  off  the  platform.  Still  they  waited  in  the 
dark  and  cold. 

"It's  an  hour  an'  a  half  late,"  said  Arthur  pathetically. 

"Well,"  said  Annie,  "it's  Christmas  Eve." 

They  all  grew  silent.  He  wasn't  coming.  They  looked 
down  the  darkness  of  the  railway.  There  was  London!  It 
seemed  the  uttermost  of  distance.  They  thought  anything 
might  happen  if  one  came  from  London.  They  were  all  too 
troubled  to  talk.  Cold,  and  unhappy,  and  silent,  they  huddled 
together  on  the  platform. 

At  last,  after  more  than  two  hours,  they  saw  the  lights 
of  an  engine  peering  round,  away  down  the  darkness.  A 
porter  ran  out.  The  children  drew  back  with  beating  hearts. 
A  great  train,  bound  for  Manchester,  drew  up.  Two  doors 
opened,  and  from  one  of  them,  William.  They  flew  to  him. 
He  handed  parcels  to  them  cheerily,  and  immediately  began 
to  explain  that  this  great  train  had  stopped  for  his  sake  at 
such  a  small  station  as  Sethley  Bridge:  it  was  not  booked  to 
stop. 

Meanwhile  the  parents  were  getting  anxious.  The  table 
was  set,  the  chop  was  cooked,  everything  was  ready.  Mrs. 
Morel  put  on  her  black  apron.  She  was  wearing  her  best 
dress.  Then  she  sat,  pretending  to  read.  The  minutes  were  % 
torture  to  her. 

"H'm!"  said  Morel.  "It's  an  hour  an'  a  ha'ef." 

"And  those  children  waiting!"  she  said. 

"Th'  train  canna  ha'  come  in  yit,"  he  said. 


Q8 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"I  tell  you,  on  Christmas  Eve  they're  hours  wrong." 

They  were  both  a  bit  cross  with  each  other,  so  gnawed 
with  anxiety.  The  ash-tree  moaned  outside  in  a  cold,  raw 
wind.  And  all  that  space  of  night  from  London  home!  Mrs. 
Morel  suffered.  The  slight  click  of  the  works  inside  the  clock 
irritated  her.  It  was  getting  so  late;  it  was  getting  unbearable. 

At  last  there  was  a  sound  of  voices,  and  a  footstep  in  the 
entry. 

"Ha's  here!"  cried  Morel,  jumping  up. 

Then  he  stood  back.  The  mother  ran  a  few  steps  towards 
the  door  and  waited.  There  was  a  rush  and  a  patter  of  feet, 
the  door  burst  open.  William  was  there.  He  dropped  his 
Gladstone  bag  and  took  his  mother  in  his  arms. 

"Mater! "  he  said. 

"My  boy!"  she  cried. 

And  for  two  seconds,  no  longer,  she  clasped  him  and 
kissed  him.  Then  she  withdrew  and  said,  trying  to  be  quite 
normal: 

"But  how  late  you  are!" 

"Aren't  I!"  he  cried  turning  to  his  father.  "Well,  dad!" 
The  two  men  shook  hands. 
"Well,  my  lad!" 
Morel's  eyes  were  wet. 

"We  thought  tha'd  niver  be  commin',"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I'd  come!"  exclaimed  William. 

Then  the  son  turned  round  to  his  mother. 

"But  you  look  well,"  she  said  proudly,  laughing. 

"Well!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  should  think  so— coming  home!" 

He  was  a  fine  fellow,  big,  straight,  and  fearless-looking. 
He  looked  round  at  the  evergreens  and  the  kissing  bunch, 
arid  the  little  tarts  that  lay  in  their  tins  on  the  hearth. 

"By  jove!  mother,  it's  not  different!"  he  said,  as  if  in  relief. 

Everybody  was  still  for  a  second.  Then  he  suddenly 
sprang  forward,  picked  a  tart  from  the  hearth,  and  pushed 
it  whole  into  his  mouth. 

"Well,  did  iver  you  see  such  a  parish  oven!"  his  father 
Exclaimed. 

He  had  brought  them  endless  presents.  Every  penny  he 


THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  PAUL  99 

had  he  had  spent  on  them.  There  was  a  sense  of  luxury 
overflowing  in  the  house.  For  his  mother  there  was  an 
umbrella  with  gold  on  the  pale  handle.  She  kept  it  to  her 
dying  day,  and  would  have  lost  anything  rather  than  that. 
Everybody  had  something  gorgeous,  and  besides,  there  were 
pounds  of  unknown  sweets:  Turkish  delight,  crystallized 
pineapple,  and  such-like  things  which,  the  children  thought, 
only  the  splendour  of  London  could  provide.  And  Paul 
boasted  of  these  sweets  among  his  friends. 

"Real  pineapple,  cut  off  in  slices,  and  then  turned  into 
crystal— fair  grand!" 

Everybody  was  mad  with  happiness  in  the  family.  Home 
was  home,  and  they  loved  it  with  a  passion  of  love,  whatever 
the  suffering  had  been.  There  were  parties,  there  were 
rejoicings.  People  came  in  to  see  William,  to  see  what  differ- 
ence London  had  made  to  him.  And  they  all  found  him 
"such  a  gentleman,  and  such  a  fine  fellow,  my  word!" 

When  he  went  away  again  the  children  retired  to  various 
places  to  weep  alone.  Morel  went  to  bed  in  misery,  and  Mrs. 
Morel  felt  as  if  she  were  numbed  by  some  drug,  as  if  her 
feelings  were  paralysed.  She  loved  him  passionately. 

He  was  in  the  office  of  a  lawyer  connected  with  a  large 
shipping  firm,  and  at  the  midsummer  his  chief  offered  him 
a  trip  in  the  Mediterranean  on  one  of  the  boats,  for  quite 
a  small  cost.  Mrs.  Morel  wrote:  "Go,  go,  my  boy.  You  may 
never  have  a  chance  again,  and  I  should  love  to  think  of  you 
cruising  there  in  the  Mediterranean  almost  better  than  to 
have  you  at  home."  But  William  came  home  for  his  fort- 
night's holiday.  Not  even  the  Mediterranean,  which  pulled 
at  all  his  young  man's  desire  to  travel,  and  at  his  poor  man's 
wonder  at  the  glamorous  south,  could  take  him  away  when 
he  might  come  home.  That  compensated  his  mother  for 
much. 


CHAPTER  V 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE 


MOREL  was  rather  a  heedless  man,  careless  of  danger. 
So  he  had  endless  accidents.  Now,  when  Mrs.  Morel 
heard  the  rattle  of  an  empty  coal-cart  cease  at  her  entry-end, 
she  ran  into  the  parlour  to  look,  expecting  almost  to  see  her 
husband  seated  in  the  waggon,  his  face  grey  under  his  dirt, 
his  body  limp  and  sick  with  some  hurt  or  other.  If  it  were 
he,  she  would  run  out  to  help. 

About  a  year  after  William  went  to  London,  and  just  after 
Paul  had  left  school,  before  he  got  work,  Mrs.  Morel  was 
upstairs  and  her  son  was  painting  in  the  kitchen—he  was  very 
clever  with  his  brush— when  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Crossly  he  put  down  his  brush  to  go.  At  the  same  moment 
his  mother  opened  a  window  upstairs  and  looked  down. 
A  pit-lad  in  his  dirt  stood  on  the  threshold. 
"Is  this  Walter  Morel's? "  he  asked. 
"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "What  is  it?" 
But  she  had  guessed  already. 
"Your  mester's  got  hurt,"  he  said. 

"Eh,  dear  me!"  she  exclaimed.  "It's  a  wonder  if  he  hadn't, 
lad.  And  what's  he  done  this  time?" 

"I  don't  know  for  sure,  but  it's  'is  leg  somewhere.  They 
<a'ein'  'im  ter  th'  'ospital." 

"Good  gracious  me!"  she  exclaimed.  "Eh,  dear,  what  a 
one  he  is!  There's  not  five  minutes  of  peace,  I'll  be  hanged  if 
there  is!  His  thumb  nearly  better,  and  now—  Did  you  see 
him?" 

"I  seed  him  at  th'  bottom.  An'  I  seed  'em  bring  'im  up  in  a 
tub,  an'  'e  wor  in  a  dead  faint.  But  he  shouted  like  anythink 
when  Doctor  Fraser  examined  him  i'  th'  lamp  cabin— an' 

ioo 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE 


IOI 


cossed  an'  swore,  an'  said  as  'e  wor  goin'  to  be  ta'en  whoam— 
'e  worn't  goin'  ter  th'  'ospital." 
The  boy  faltered  to  an  end. 

"He  "Would  want  to  come  home,  so  that  I  can  have  all  the 
bother.  Thank  you,  my  lad.  Eh,  dear,  if  I'm  not  sick— sick 
and  surfeited,  I  am!" 

She  came  downstairs.  Paul  had  mechanically  resumed  his 
painting. 

"And  it  must  be  pretty  bad  if  they've  taken  him  to  the 
hospital,"  she  went  on.  "But  what  a  careless  creature  he  is! 
Other  men  don't  have  all  these  accidents.  Yes,  he  "would 
want  to  put  all  the  burden  on  me.  Eh,  dear,  just  as  we  were 
getting  easy  a  bit  at  last.  Put  those  things  away,  there's  no 
time  to  be  painting  now.  What  time  is  there  a  train?  I  know 
I  s'll  have  to  go  trailing  to  Keston.  I  s'll  have  to  leave  that 
bedroom." 

"I  can  finish  it,"  said  Paul. 

"You  needn't.  I  shall  catch  the  seven  o'clock  back,  I 
should  think.  Oh,  my  blessed  heart,  the  fuss  and  commotion 
he'll  make!  And  those  granite  setts  at  Tinder  Hill-— he  might 
well  call  them  kidney  pebbles— they'll  jolt  him  almost  to 
bits.  I  wonder  why  they  can't  mend  them,  the  state  they're 
in,  an'  all  the  men  as  go  across  in  that  ambulance.  You'd 
think  they'd  have  a  hospital  here.  The  men  bought  the 
ground,  and,  my  sirs,  there'd  be  accidents  enough  to  keep 
it  going.  But  no,  they  must  trail  them  ten  miles  in  a  slow 
ambulance  to  Nottingham.  It's  a  crying  shame!  Oh,  and 
die  fuss  he'll  make!  I  know  he  will!  I  wonder  who's  with 
him.  Barker,  I  s'd  think.  Poor  beggar,  he'll  wish  himself 
anywhere  rather.  But  he'll  look  after  him,  I  know.  Now 
there's  no  telling  how  long  he'll  be  stuck  in  that  hospital 
—and  won't  he  hate  it!  But  if  it's  only  his  leg  it's  not  so 
bad." 

All  the  time  she  was  getting  ready.  Hurriedly  taking  ofi 
her  bodice,  she  crouched  at  the  boiler  while  the  water  ran 
slowly  into  her  lading-can. 

"I  wish  this  boiler  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea!"  she  ex-* 


102 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


claimed,  wriggling  the  handle  impatiently.  She  had  very- 
handsome,  strong  arms,  rather  surprising  on  a  smallish 
woman. 

Paul  cleared  away,  put  on  the  kettle,  and  set  the  table. 
"There  isn't  a  train  till  four-twenty,"  he  said.  "You've 
time  enough." 

"Oh  no,  I  haven't!"  she  cried,  blinking  at  him  over  the 
towel  as  she  wiped  her  face. 

"Yes,  you  have.  You  must  drink  a  cup  of  tea  at  any  rate. 
Should  I  come  with  you  to  Keston?" 

"Come  with  me?  What  for,  I  should  like  to  know?  Now, 
what  have  I  to  take  him?  Eh,  dear!  His  clean  shirt— and  it's 
a  blessing  it  is  clean.  But  it  had  better  be  aired.  And  stock- 
ings—he won't  want  them— and  a  towel,  I  suppose;  and 
handkerchiefs.  Now  what  else?" 

"A  comb,  a  knife  and  fork  and  spoon,"  said  Paul.  His 
father  had  been  in  the  hospital  before. 

"Goodness  knows  what  sort  of  state  his  feet  were  in," 
continued  Mrs.  Morel,  as  she  combed  her  long  brown  hair, 
that  was  fine  as  silk,  and  was  touched  now  with  grey.  "He's 
very  particular  to  wash  himself  to  the  waist,  but  below  he 
thinks  doesn't  matter.  But  there,  I  suppose  they  see  plenty 
like  it." 

Paul  had  laid  the  table.  He  cut  his  mother  one  or  two 
pieces  of  very  thin  bread-and-butter. 

"Here  you  are,"  he  said,  putting  her  cup  of  tea  in  her 
place. 

"I  can't  be  bothered!"  she  exclaimed  crossly. 
"Well,  you've  got  to,  so  there,  now  it's  put  out  ready 
he  insisted. 

So  she  sat  down  and  sipped  her  tea,  and  ate  a  little,  in 
silence.  She  was  thinking. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  was  gone,  to  walk  the  two  and  a 
half  miles  to  Keston  Station.  All  the  things  she  was  taking 
him  she  had  in  her  bulging  string  bag.  Paul  watched  her  go 
up  the  road  between  the  hedges— a  little,  quick-stepping 
figure,  and  his  heart  ached  for  her,  that  she  was  thrust  for- 
ward again  into  pain  and  trouble.  And  she,  tripping  so 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  IOJ 

quickly  in  her  anxiety,  felt  at  the  back  of  her  her  son's  heart 
waiting  on  her,  felt  him  bearing  what  part  of  the  burden  he 
could,  even  supporting  her.  And  when  she  was  at  the  hos- 
pital, she  thought:  "It  will  upset  that  lad  when  I  tell  him 
how  bad  it  is.  I'd  better  be  careful."  And  when  she  was 
trudging  home  again,  she  felt  she  was  coming  to  share  her 
burden. 

"Is  it  bad?"  asked  Paul,  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  house. 

"It's  bad  enough,"  she  replied. 

"What?"^ 

She  sighed  and  sat  down,  undoing  her  bonnet-strings. 
Her  son  watched  her  face  as  it  was  lifted,  and  her  small, 
work-hardened  hands  fingering  at  the  bow  under  hei! 
chin. 

"Well,"  she  answered,  "it's  not  really  dangerous,  but  the 
nurse  says  it's  a  dreadful  smash.  You  see,  a  great  piece  of  rock 
fell  on  his  leg— here— and  it's  a  compound  fracture.  There  are 
pieces  of  bone  sticking  through  " 

"Ugh— how  horrid!"  exclaimed  the  children. 

"And,"  she  continued,  "of  course  he  says  he's  going  to 
die— it  wouldn't  be  him  if  he  didn't.  Tm  done  for,  my  lass!' 
he  said,  looking  at  me.  'Don't  be  so  silly,'  I  said  to  him. 
'You're  not  going  to  die  of  a  broken  leg,  however  badly  it's 
smashed.'  'I  s'll  niver  come  out  of  'ere  but  in  a  wooden  box,' 
he  groaned.  Well,'  I  said,  'if  you  want  them  to  carry  you 
into  the  garden  in  a  wooden  box,  when  you're  better,  I've  no 
doubt  they  will.'  'If  we  think  it's  good  for  him,'  said  the 
Sister.  She's  an  awfully  nice  Sister,  but  rather  strict." 

Mrs.  Morel  took  off  her  bonnet.  The  children  waited  in 
silence. 

"Of  course,  he  is  bad,"  she  continued,  "and  he  will  be. 
It's  a  great  shock,  and  he's  lost  a  lot  of  blood;  and,  of  course, 
it  is  a  very  dangerous  smash.  It's  not  at  all  sure  that  it  will 
mend  so  easily.  And  then  there's  the  fever  and  the  mortifica- 
tion—if it  took  bad  ways  he'd  quickly  be  gone.  But  there, 
he's  a  clean-blooded  man,  with  wonderful  healing  flesh,  and 
so  I  see  no  reason  why  it  should  take  bad  ways.  Of  course 
there's  a  wound  — " 


104  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

She  was  pale  now  with  emotion  and  anxiety.  The  three 
children  realized  that  it  was  very  bad  for  their  father,  and 
the  house  was  silent,  anxious. 

"But  he  always  gets  better,"  said  Paul  after  a  while. 

"That's  what  I  tell  him,"  said  the  mother. 

Everybody  moved  about  in  silence. 

"And  he  really  looked  nearly  done  for,"  she  said.  "But 
fhe  Sister  says  that  is  the  pain." 

Annie  took  away  her  mother's  coat  and  bonnet. 

"And  he  looked  at  me  when  I  came  away!  I  said:  'I  s'll 
have  to  go  now,  Walter,  because  of  the  train—and  the  chil- 
dren.' And  he  looked  at  me.  It  seems  hard." 

Paul  took  up  his  brush  again  and  went  on  painting.  Ar- 
thur went  outside  for  some  coal.  Annie  sat  looking  dismal. 
And  Mrs.  Morel,  in  her  little  rocking-chair  that  her  hus- 
band had  made  for  her  when  the  first  baby  was  coming, 
remained  motionless,  brooding.  She  was  grieved,  and  bitterly 
sorry  for  the  man  who  was  hurt  so  much.  But  still,  in  her 
heart  of  hearts,  where  the  love  should  have  burned,  there 
was  a  blank.  Now,  when  all  her  woman's  pity  was  roused  to 
its  full  extent,  when  she  would  have  slaved  herself  to  death 
to  nurse  him  and  to  save  him,  when  she  would  have  taken 
the  pain  herself,  if  she  could,  somewhere  far  away  inside  her, 
she  felt  indifferent  to  him  and  to  his  suffering.  It  hurt  her 
most  of  all,  this  failure  to  love  him,  even  when  he  roused  her 
strong  emotions.  She  brooded  awhile. 

"And  there,"  she  said  suddenly,  "when  I'd  got  halfway 
to  Keston,  I  found  I'd  come  out  in  my  working  boots— and 
look  at  them."  They  were  an  old  pair  of  Paul's,  brown  and 
rubbed  through  at  the  toes.  "I  didn't  know  what  to  do  with 
myself,  for  shame,"  she  added. 

In  the  morning,  when  Annie  and  Arthur  were  at  school, 
Mrs.  Morel  talked  again  to  her  son,  who  was  helping  her 
with  her  housework. 

"I  found  Barker  at  the  hospital.  He  did  look  bad,  poor 
little  fellow!  'Well,'  I  said  to  him,  'what  sort  of  a  journey 
did  you  have  with  him?'  'Dunna  ax  me,  missis!'  he  said.  'Ay,' 
I  said,  'I  know  what  he'd  be.'  'But  it  wor  bad  for  him,  Mrs. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  IO5 

Morel,  it  *vor  that!'  he  said.  'I  know,'  I  said.  'At  ivry  jolt  1 
thought  my  'eart  would  ha'  flown  clean  out  o'  my  mouth/ 
he  said.  4 An'  the  scream  'e  give  sometimes!  Missis,  not  for  a 
fortune  would  I  go  through  wi'  it  again.'  'I  can  quite  under- 
stand it,'  I  said.  'It's  a  nasty  job,  though,'  he  said,  'an'  one 
as'll  be  a  long  while  afore  it's  right  again.'  'I'm  afraid  it  will/ 
I  said.  I  like  Mr.  Barker— I  do  like  him.  There's  something 
so  manly  about  him." 

Paul  resumed  his  task  silently. 

"And  of  course,"  Mrs.  Morel  continued,  "for  a  man  like 
your  father,  the  hospital  is  hard.  He  canH  understand  rules 
and  regulations.  And  he  won't  let  anybody  else  touch  him. 
not  if  he  can  help  it.  When  he  smashed  the  muscles  of  his 
thigh,  and  it  had  to  be  dressed  four  times  a  day,  would  he  let 
anybody  but  me  or  his  mother  do  it?  He  wouldn't.  So,  of 
course,  he'll  suffer  in  there  with  the  nurses.  And  I  didn't  like 
leaving  him.  I'm  sure,  when  I  kissed  him  an'  came  away,  it 
seemed  a  shame." 

So  she  talked  to  her  son,  almost  as  if  she  were  thinking 
aloud  to  him,  and  he  took  it  in  as  best  he  could,  by  sharing 
her  trouble  to  lighten  it.  And  in  the  end  she  shared  almost 
everything  with  him  without  knowing. 

Morel  had  a  very  bad  time.  For  a  week  he  was  in  a  critical 
condition.  Then  he  began  to  mend.  And  then,  knowing  he 
was  going  to  get  better,  the  whole  family  sighed  with  relief, 
and  proceeded  to  live  happily. 

They  were  not  badly  off  whilst  Morel  was  in  the  hos- 
pital. There  were  fourteen  shillings  a  week  from  the  pit, 
ten  shillings  from  the  sick  club,  and  five  shillings  from  the 
Disability  Fund;  and  then  every  week  the  butties  had  some- 
thing for  Mrs.  Morel— five  or  seven  shillings— so  that  she 
was  quite  well  to  do.  And  whilst  Morel  was  progressing  fa- 
vourably in  the  hospital,  the  family  was  extraordinarily 
happy  and  peaceful.  On  Saturdays  and  Wednesdays  Mrs. 
Morel  went  to  Nottingham  to  see  her  husband.  Then  she 
always  brought  back  some  little  thing:  a  small  tube  of  paints 
for  Paul,  or  some  thick  paper;  a  couple  of  postcards  for 
Annie,  that  the  whole  family  rejoiced  over  for  days  before 


/ 


106  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

the  girl  was  allowed  to  send  them  away;  or  a  fret-saw  for 
Arthur,  or  a  bit  of  pretty  wood.  She  described  her  adven- 
tures into  the  big  shops  with  joy.  Soon  the  folk  in  the  pic- 
ture-shop knew  her,  and  knew  about  Paul.  The  girl  in  the 
book-shop  took  a  keen  interest  in  her.  Mrs.  Morel  was  full 
of  information  when  she  got  home  from  Nottingham.  The 
three  sat  round  till  bedtime,  listening,  putting  in,  arguing. 
Then  Paul  often  raked  the  fire. 

"I'm  the  man  in  the  house  now,"  he  used  to  say  to  his 
mother  with  joy.  They  learned  how  perfectly  peaceful  the 
home  could  be.  And  they  almost  regretted— though  none  of 
them  would  have  owned  to  such  callousness— that  their 
father  was  soon  coming  back. 

Paul  was  now  fourteen,  and  was  looking  for  work.  He 
was  a  rather  small  and  rather  finely  made  boy,  with  dark 
brown  hair  and  light  blue  eyes.  His  face  had  already  lost 
its  youthful  chubbiness,  and  was  becoming  somewhat  like 
William's— rough-featured,  almost  rugged— and  it  was  ex- 
traordinarily mobile.  Usually  he  looked  as  if  he  saw  things, 
was  full  of  life,  and  warm;  then  his  smile,  like  his  mother's, 
came  suddenly  and  was  very  lovable;  and  then,  when  there 
was  any  clog  in  his  soul's  quick  running,  his  face  went  stupid 
and  ugly.  He  was  the  sort  of  boy  that  becomes  a  clown 
and  a  lout  as  soon  as  he  is  not  understood,  or  feels  himself 
held  cheap;  and,  again,  is  adorable  at  the  first  touch  of 
warmth. 

He  suffered  very  much  from  the  first  contact  with  any- 
thing. When  he  was  seven,  the  starting  school  had  been  a 
nightmare  and  a  torture  to  him.  But  afterwards  he  liked  it. 
And  now  that  he  felt  he  had  to  go  out  into  life,  he  went 
through  agonies  of  shrinking  self-consciousness.  He  was 
quite  a  clever  painter  for  a  boy  of  his  years,  and  he  knew 
some  French  and  German  and  mathematics  that  Mr.  Heaton 
had  taught  him.  But  nothing  he  had  was  of  any  commercial 
Value.  He  was  not  strong  enough  for  heavy  manual  work, 
his  mother  said.  He  did  not  care  for  making  things  with  his 
hands,  preferred  racing  about,  or  making  excursions  into  the 
country,  or  reading,  or  painting. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  IO7 

"What  do  you  want  to  be?"  his  mother  asked. 
"Anything." 

"That  is  no  answer,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

But  it  was  quite  truthfully  the  only  answer  he  could  give. 
His  ambition,  as  far  as  this  world's  gear  went,  was  quietly 
to  earn  his  thirty  or  thirty-five  shillings  a  week  somewhere 
near  home,  and  then,  when  his  father  died,  have  a  cottage 
with  his  mother,  paint  and  go  out  as  he  liked,  and  live  happy 
ever  after.  That  was  his  programme  as  far  as  doing  things 
went.  But  he  was  proud  within  himself,  measuring  people 
against  himself,  and  placing  them,  inexorably.  And  he 
thought  that  perhaps  he  might  also  make  a  painter,  the  real 
thing.  But  that  he  left  alone. 

"Then,"  said  his  mother,  "you  must  look  in  the  paper  for 
the  advertisements." 

He  looked  at  her.  It  seemed  to  him  a  bitter  humiliation  and 
an  anguish  to  go  through.  But  he  said  nothing.  When  he  got 
up  in  the  morning,  his  whole  being  was  knotted  up  over  this 
one  thought: 

"I've  got  to  go  and  look  for  advertisements  for  a  job." 

It  stood  in  front  of  the  morning,  that  thought,  killing  all 
joy  and  even  life,  for  him.  His  heart  felt  like  a  tight  knot. 

And  then,  at  ten  o'clock,  he  set  off.  He  was  supposed  to 
be  a  queer,  quiet  child.  Going  up  the  sunny  street  of  the 
little  town,  he  felt  as  if  all  the  folk  he  met  said  to  them- 
selves: "He's  going  to  the  Co-op  reading-room  to  look  in  the 
papers  for  a  place.  He  can't  get  a  job.  I  suppose  he's  living 
on  his  mother."  Then  he  crept  up  the  stone  stairs  behind  the 
drapery  shop  at  the  Co-op,  and  peeped  in  the  reading-room. 
Usually  one  or  two  men  were  there,  either  old,  useless 
fellow,  or  colliers  "on  the  club."  So  he  entered,  full  of 
shrinking  and  suffering  when  they  looked  up,  seated  him- 
self at  the  table,  and  pretended  to  scan  the  news.  He  knew 
they  would  think,  "What  does  a  lad  of  thirteen  want  in  a 
reading-room  with  a  newspaper?"  and  he  suffered. 

Then  he  looked  wistfully  out  of  the  window.  Already  he 
was  a  prisoner  of  industrialism.  Large  sunflowers  stared  over 
the  old  red  wall  of  the  garden  opposite,  looking  in  their  jolly 


io8 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


way  down  on  the  women  who  were  hurrying  with  some- 
thing for  dinner.  The  valley  was  full  of  corn,  brightening 
in  the  sun.  Two  colliers,  among  the  fields,  waved  their  small 
white  plumes  of  steam.  Far  off  on  the  hills  were  the  woods 
of  Annesley,  dark  and  fascinating.  Already  his  heart  went 
down.  He  was  being  taken  into  bondage.  His  freedom  in  the 
beloved  home  valley  was  going  now. 

The  brewers'  waggons  came  rolling  up  from  Keston  with 
enormous  barrels,  four  a  side,  like  beans  in  a  burst  bean-pod. 
The  waggoner,  throned  aloft,  rolling  massively  in  his  seat* 
was  not  so  much  below  Paul's  eye.  The  man's  hair,  on  his 
small,  bullet  head,  was  bleached  almost  white  by  the  sun, 
and  on  his  thick  red  arms,  rocking  idly  on  his  sack  apron* 
the  white  hairs  glistened.  His  red  face  shone  and  was  almost 
asleep  with  sunshine.  The  horses,  handsome  and  brown* 
went  on  by  themselves,  looking  by  far  the  masters  of  the 
show. 

Paul  wished  he  were  stupid.  "I  wish,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self, "I  was  fat  like  him,  and  like  a  dog  in  the  sun.  I  wish  I 
was  a  pig  and  a  brewer's  waggoner." 

Then,  the  room  being  at  last  empty,  he  would  hastily  copy 
an  advertisement  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  then  another,  and  slip 
out  in  immense  relief.  His  mother  would  scan  over  his 
copies. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  may  try." 

William  had  written  out  a  letter  of  application,  couched 
in  admirable  business  language,  which  Paul  copied,  with 
variations.  The  boy's  handwriting  was  execrable,  so  that 
William,  who  did  all  things  well,  got  into  a  fever  of  im- 
patience. 

The  elder  brother  was  becoming  quite  swanky.  In  London 
he  found  that  he  could  associate  with  men  far  above  his  Best- 
wood  friends  in  station.  Some  of  the  clerks  in  the  office  had 
studied  for  the  law,  and  were  more  or  less  going  through  a 
kind  of  apprenticeship.  William  always  made  friends  among 
men  wherever  he  went,  he  was  so  jolly.  Therefore  he  was 
soon  visiting  and  staying  in  houses  of  men  who,  in  Best- 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  IO9 

wood,  would  have  looked  down  on  the  unapproachable 
bank  manager,  and  would  merely  have  called  indifferently 
on  the  Rector.  So  he  began  to  fancy  himself  as  a  great  gun. 
He  was,  indeed,  rather  surprised  at  the  ease  with  which  he 
became  a  gentleman. 

His  mother  was  glad,  he  seemed  so  pleased.  And  his  lodg- 
ing in  Walthamstow  was  so  dreary.  But  now  there  seemed 
to  come  a  kind  of  fever  into  the  young  man's  letters.  He  was 
unsettled  by  all  the  change,  he  did  not  stand  firm  on  his  own 
feet,  but  seemed  to  spin  rather  giddily  on  the  quick  current 
of  the  new  life.  His  mother  was  anxious  for  him.  She  could 
feel  him  losing  himself.  He  had  danced  and  gone  to  the 
theatre,  boated  on  the  river,  been  out  with  friends;  and  she 
knew  he  sat  up  afterwards  in  his  cold  bedroom  grinding 
away  at  Latin,  because  he  intended  to  get  on  in  his  office, 
and  in  the  law  as  much  as  he  could.  He  never  sent  his  mother 
any  money  now.  It  was  all  taken,  the  little  he  had,  for  his 
own  life.  And  she  did  not  want  any,  except  sometimes,  when 
she  was  in  a  tight  corner,  and  when  ten  shillings  would  have 
saved  her  much  worry.  She  still  dreamed  of  William,  and  of 
what  he  would  do,  with  herself  behind  him.  Never  for  a 
minute  would  she  admit  to  herself  how  heavy  and  anxious 
her  heart  was  because  of  him. 

Also  he  talked  a  good  deal  now  of  a  girl  he  had  met  at  a 
dance,  a  handsome  brunette,  quite  young,  and  a  lady,  after 
whom  the  men  were  running  thick  and  fast. 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  run,  my  boy,"  his  mother  wrote 
to  him,  "unless  you  saw  all  the  other  men  chasing  her  too. 
You  feel  safe  enough  and  vain  enough  in  a  crowd.  But  take 
care,  and  see  how  you  feel  when  you  find  yourself  alone, 
and  in  triumph." 

William  resented  these  things,  and  continued  the  chase. 
He  had  taken  the  girl  on  the  river.  "If  you  saw  her,  mother, 
you  would  know  how  I  feel.  Tall  and  elegant,  with  the 
clearest  of  clear,  transparent  olive  complexions,  hair  as  black 
as  jet,  and  such  grey  eyes— bright,  mocking,  like  lights  on 
water  at  night.  It  is  all  very  well  to  be  a  bit  satirical  till  you 


no 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


see  her.  And  she  dresses  as  well  as  any  woman  in  London.  I 
tell  you,  your  son  doesn't  half  put  his  head  up  when  she  goes 
walking  down  Piccadilly  with  him." 

Mrs.  Morel  wondered,  in  her  heart,  if  her  son  did  not  go 
walking  down  Piccadilly  with  an  elegant  figure  and  fine 
clothes,  rather  than  with  a  woman  who  was  near  to  him. 
But  she  congratulated  him  in  her  doubtful  fashion.  And,  as 
she  stood  over  the  washing-tub,  the  mother  brooded  over 
her  son.  She  saw  him  saddled  with  an  elegant  and  expensive 
wife,  earning  little  money,  dragging  along  and  getting  drag- 
gled in  some  small,  ugly  house  in  a  suburb.  "But  there,"  she 
told  herself,  "I  am  very  likely  a  silly— meeting  trouble  half- 
way." Nevertheless,  the  load  of  anxiety  scarcely  ever  left 
her  heart,  lest  William  should  do  the  wrong  thing  by 
himself. 

Presently,  Paul  was  bidden  call  upon  Thomas  Jordan, 
Manufacturer  of  Surgical  Appliances,  at  21,  Spaniel  Row, 
Nottingham.  Mrs.  Morel  was  all  joy. 

"There,  you  see!"  she  cried,  her  eyes  shining.  "You've 
only  written  four  letters,  and  the  third  is  answered.  You're 
lucky,  my  boy,  as  I  always  said  you  were." 

Paul  looked  at  the  picture  of  a  wooden  leg,  adorned  with 
elastic  stockings  and  other  appliances,  that  figured  on  Mr. 
Jordan's  notepaper,  and  he  felt  alarmed.  He  had  not  known 
that  elastic  stockings  existed.  And  he  seemed  to  feel  the 
business  world,  with  its  regulated  system  of  values,  and  its 
impersonality,  and  he  dreaded  it.  It  seemed  monstrous  also 
that  a  business  could  be  run  on  wooden  legs. 

Mother  and  son  set  off  together  one  Tuesday  morning. 
It  was  August  and  blazing  hot.  Paul  walked  with  something 
screwed  up  tight  inside  him.  He  would  have  suffered  much 
physical  pain  rather  than  this  unreasonable  suffering  at  being 
exposed  to  strangers,  to  be  accepted  or  rejected.  Yet  he 
chattered  away  with  his  mother.  Fie  would  never  have  con- 
fessed to  her  how  he  suffered  over  these  things,  and  she 
only  partly  guessed.  She  was  gay,  like  a  sweetheart.  She 
stood  in  front  of  the  ticket-office  at  Bestwood,  and  Paul 
watched  her  take  from  her  purse  the  money  for  the  tickets. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  III 

As  he  saw  her  hands  in  their  old  black  kid  gloves  getting  the 
silver  out  of  the  worn  purse,  his  heart  contracted  with  pain 
of  love  of  her. 

She  was  quite  excited,  and  quite  gay.  He  suffered  because 
she  would  talk  aloud  in  presence  of  the  other  travellers. 

"Now  look  at  that  silly  cow!"  she  said,  "careering  round 
as  if  it  thought  it  was  a  circus." 

"It's  most  likely  a  bottfly,"  he  said  very  low. 

"A  what?"  she  asked  brightly  and  unashamed. 

They  thought  awhile.  He  was  sensible  all  the  time  of 
having  her  opposite  him.  Suddenly  their  eyes  met,  and  she 
smiled  to  him— a  rare,  intimate  smile,  beautiful  with  bright- 
ness and  love.  Then  each  looked  out  of  the  window. 

The  sixteen  slow  miles  of  railway  journey  passed.  The 
mother  and  son  walked  down  Station  Street,  feeling  the 
excitement  of  lovers  having  an  adventure  together.  In  Car- 
rington  Street  they  stopped  to  hang  over  the  parapet  and 
look  at  the  barges  on  the  canal  below. 

"It's  just  like  Venice,"  he  said,  seeing  the  sunshine  on  the 
water  that  lay  between  high  factory  walls. 

"Perhaps,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

They  enjoyed  the  shops  immensely. 

"Now  you  see  that  blouse,"  she  would  say,  "wouldn't  that 
just  suit  our  Annie?  And  for  one-and-eleven-three.  Isn't  that 
cheap?" 

"And  made  of  needlework  as  well,"  he  said. 
"Yes." 

They  had  plenty  of  time,  so  they  did  not  hurry.  The  town 
was  strange  and  delightful  to  them.  But  the  boy  was  tied  up 
inside  in  a  knot  of  apprehension.  He  dreaded  the  interview 
with  Thomas  Jordan. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  by  St.  Peter's  Church.  They 
turned  up  a  narrow  street  that  led  to  the  Castle.  It  was 
gloomy  and  old-fashioned,  having  low  dark  shops  and  dark 
green  house-doors  with  brass  knockers,  and  yellow-ochred 
doorsteps  projecting  on  to  the  pavement;  then  another  old 
shop  whose  small  window  looked  like  a  cunning,  half-shut 
eye.  Mother  and  son  went  cautiously,  looking  everywhere 


112 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


for  "Thomas  Jordan  and  Son."  It  was  like  hunting  in  some 
wild  place.  They  were  on  tiptoe  of  excitement. 

Suddenly  they  spied  a  big,  dark  archway,  in  which  were 
names  of  various  firms,  Thomas  Jordan  among  them. 

"Here  it  is!"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "But  now  where  is  it?" 

They  looked  round.  On  one  side  was  a  queer,  dark,  card- 
board factory,  on  the  other  a  Commercial  Hotel. 

"It's  up  the  entry,"  said  Paul. 

And  they  ventured  under  the  archway,  as  into  the  jaws 
of  the  dragon.  They  emerged  into  a  wide  yard,  like  a  well, 
with  buildings  all  round.  It  was  littered  with  straw  and 
boxes,  and  cardboard.  The  sunshine  actually  caught  one 
crate  whose  straw  was  streaming  on  to  the  yard  like  gold. 
But  elsewhere  the  place  was  like  a  pit.  There  were  several 
doors,  and  two  flights  of  steps.  Straight  in  front,  on  a  dirty 
glass  door  at  the  top  of  a  staircase,  loomed  the  ominous 
words  "Thomas  Jordan  and  Son— Surgical  Appliances."  Mrs. 
Morel  went  first,  her  son  followed  her.  Charles  I  mounted 
his  scaffold  with  a  lighter  heart  than  had  Paul  Morel  as  he 
followed  his  mother  up  the  dirty  steps  to  the  dirty  door. 

She  pushed  open  the  door,  and  stood  in  pleased  surprise. 
In  front  of  her  was  a  big  warehouse,  with  creamy  paper 
parcels  everywhere,  and  clerks,  with  their  shirt-sleeves  rolled 
back,  were  going  about  in  an  at-home  sort  of  way.  The  light 
was  subdued,  the  glossy  cream  parcels  seemed  luminous,  the 
counters  were  of  dark  brown  wood.  All  was  quiet  and  very 
homely.  Mrs.  Morel  took  two  steps  forward,  then  waited. 
Paul  stood  behind  her.  She  had  on  her  Sunday  bonnet  and 
a  black  veil;  he  wore  a  boy's  broad  white  collar  and  a  Nor- 
folk suit. 

One  of  the  clerks  looked  up.  He  was  thin  and  tall,  with 
a  small  face.  His  way  of  looking  was  alert.  Then  he  glanced 
round  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  was  a  glass  office. 
And  then  he  came  forward.  He  did  not  say  anything,  but 
leaned  in  a  gentle,  inquiring  fashion  towards  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Can  I  see  Mr.  Jordan?"  she  asked. 

"FU  fetch  him,"  answered  the  young  man. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  1 1 3 

He  went  down  to  the  glass  office.  A  red-faced,  white- 
whiskered  old  man  looked  up.  He  reminded  Paul  of  a  Pom- 
eranian dog.  Then  the  same  little  man  came  up  the  room. 
He  had  short  legs,  was  rather  stout,  and  wore  an  alpaca 
jacket.  So,  with  one  ear  up,  as  it  were,  he  came  stoutly  and 
inquiringly  down  the  room. 

"Good-morning!"  he  said,  hesitating  before  Mrs.  Morel, 
in  doubt  as  to  whether  she  were  a  customer  or  not. 

"Good-morning.  I  came  with  my  son,  Paul  Morel.  You 
asked  him  to  call  this  morning.,, 

"Come  this  way,"  said  Mr.  Jordan,  in  a  rather  snappy 
little  manner  intended  to  be  businesslike. 

They  followed  the  manufacturer  into  a  grubby  little 
room,  upholstered  in  black  American  leather,  glossy  with 
the  rubbing  of  many  customers.  On  the  table  was  a  pile  of 
trusses,  yellow  wash-leather  hoops  tangled  together.  They 
looked  new  and  living.  Paul  sniffed  the  odour  of  new  wash- 
leather.  He  wondered  what  the  things  were.  By  this  time  he 
was  so  much  stunned  that  he  only  noticed  the  outside 
things. 

"Sit  down!"  said  Mr.  Jordan,  irritably  pointing  Mrs. 
Morel  to  a  horse-hair  chair.  She  sat  on  the  edge  in  an  un- 
certain fashion.  Then  the  little  old  man  fidgeted  and  found 
a  paper. 

"Did  you  write  this  letter?"  he  snapped,  thrusting  what 
Paul  recognized  as  his  own  notepaper  in  front  of  him. 
"Yes,"  he  answered. 

At  that  moment  he  was  occupied  in  two  ways:  first,  in 
feeling  guilty  for  telling  a  lie,  since  William  had  composed 
the  letter;  second,  in  wondering  why  his  letter  seemed  so 
strange  and  different,  in  the  fat,  red  hand  of  the  man,  from 
what  it  had  been  when  it  lay  on  the  kitchen  table.  It  was 
like  part  of  himself,  gone  astray.  He  resented  the  way  the 
man  held  it. 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  write?"  said  the  old  man  crossly. 
Paul  merely  looked  at  him  shamedly,  and  did  not  answer. 
"He  is  a  bad  writer,"  put  in  Mrs.  Morel  apologetically. 


514  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Then  she  pushed  up  her  veil.  Paul  hated  her  for  not  being 
prouder  with  this  common  little  man,  and  he  loved  her  face 
clear  of  the  veil. 

"And  you  say  you  know  French?"  inquired  the  little  man, 
*till  sharply. 

"Yes,"  said  Paul. 

"What  school  did  you  go  to?" 

'The  Board-school." 

w4And  did  you  learn  it  there?" 

"No— I— "  The  boy  went  crimson  and  got  no  further. 

"His  godfather  gave  him  lessons,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  half- 
pleading  and  rather  distant. 

Mr.  Jordan  hesitated.  Then,  in  his  irritable  manner— he 
always  seemed  to  keep  his  hands  ready  for  action— he  pulled 
another  sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  unfolded  it.  The 
paper  made  a  crackling  noise.  He  handed  it  to  Paul. 

"Read  that,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  note  in  French,  in  thin,  flimsy  foreign  handwrit- 
ing that  the  boy  could  not  decipher.  He  stared  blankly  at 
the  paper. 

"  'Monsieur,'  "  he  began;  then  he  looked  in  great  con- 
fusion at  Mr.  Jordan.  "It's  the— it's  the  " 

He  wanted  to  say  "handwriting,"  but  his  wits  would  no 
longer  work  even  sufficiently  to  supply  him  with  the  word. 
Feeling  an  utter  fool,  and  hating  Mr.  Jordan,  he  turned 
desperately  to  the  paper  again. 

"  'Sir,— Please  send  me'— er— er— I  can't  tell  the— er— 'two 
pairs— gris  fil  has— grey  thread  stockings'— er— er— 'sans— with- 
out'— er— I  can't  tell  the  words— er—'doigts— fingers'— er— I 
can't  tell  the  — " 

He  wanted  to  say  "handwriting,"  but  the  word  still  re- 
fused to  come.  Seeing  him  stuck,  Mr.  Jordan  snatched  the 
paper  from  him. 

"  'Please  send  by  return  two  pairs  grey  thread  stockings 
without  toes.'  " 

"Well,"  flashed  Paul,  "  'doigts*  means  'fingers'— as  well- 
sis  a  rule  " 

The  little  man  looked  at  him.  He  did  not  know  whether 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  II5 

"doigts"  meant  "fingers";  he  knew  that  for  all  his  purposes 
it  meant  "toes." 

"Fingers  to  stockings!"  he  snapped. 

"Well,  it  does  mean  fingers,"  the  boy  persisted. 

He  hated  the  little  man,  who  made  such  a  clod  of  him, 
Mr.  Jordan  looked  at  the  pale,  stupid,  defiant  boy,  then  at 
the  mother,  who  sat  quiet  and  with  that  peculiar  shut-off 
look  of  the  poor  who  have  to  depend  on  the  favour  oi 
others. 

"And  when  could  he  come?"  he  asked. 
"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "as  soon  as  you  wish.  He  has 
finished  school  now." 

"He  would  live  in  Bestwood?" 

"Yes;  but  he  could  be  in— at  the  station— at  quarter  to 
eight." 
"H'm!" 

It  ended  by  Paul's  being  engaged  as  junior  spiral  clerk,  at 
eight  shillings  a  week.  The  boy  did  not  open  his  mouth  to 
say  another  word,  after  having  insisted  that  "doigts"  meant 
"fingers."  He  followed  his  mother  down  the  stairs.  She 
looked  at  him  with  her  bright  blue  eyes  full  of  love  and  joy. 

"I  think  you'll  like  it,"  she  said. 

"  'Doigts''  does  mean  'fingers,'  mother,  and  it  was  the  writ- 
ing. I  couldn't  read  the  writing." 

"Never  mind,  my  boy.  I'm  sure  he'll  be  all  right,  and  you 
won't  see  much  of  him.  Wasn't  that  first  young  fellow  nice? 
I'm  sure  you'll  like  him." 

"But  wasn't  Mr.  Jordan  common,  mother?  Does  he  own 
it  all?" 

"I  suppose  he  was  a  workman  who  has  got  on,"  she  said. 
"You  mustn't  mind  people  so  much.  They're  not  being  dis- 
agreeable to  you— it's  their  way.  You  always  think  people 
are  meaning  things  for  you.  But  they  don't." 

it  was  very  sunny.  Over  the  big  desolate  space  of  the 
market-place  the  blue  sky  shimmered,  and  the  granite  cob- 
bles of  the  paving  glistened.  Shops  down  the  Long  Row 
were  deep  in  obscurity,  and  the  shadow  was  full  of  colour. 
Just  where  the  horse  trams  trundled  across  the  market  was  a 


U6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

row  of  fruit  stalls,  with  fruit  blazing  in  the  sun— apples  and 
piles  of  reddish  oranges,  small  greengage  plums  and  bananas. 
There  was  a  warm  scent  of  fruit  as  mother  and  son  passed. 
Gradually  his  feeling  of  ignominy  and  of  rage  sank. 

"Where  should  we  go  for  dinner?"  asked  the  mother. 

It  was  felt  to  be  a  reckless  extravagance.  Paul  had  only 
been  in  an  eating-house  once  or  twice  in  his  life,  and  then 
only  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  bun.  Most  of  the  people  of 
Bestwood  considered  that  tea  and  bread-and-butter,  and 
perhaps  potted  beef,  was  all  they  could  afford  to  eat  in 
Nottingham.  Real  cooked  dinner  was  considered  great  ex- 
travagance. Paul  felt  rather  guilty. 

They  found  a  place  that  looked  quite  cheap.  But  when 
Mrs.  Morel  scanned  the  bill  of  fare,  her  heart  was  heavy, 
things  were  so  dear.  So  she  ordered  kidney  pies  and  potatoes 
as  the  cheapest  available  dish. 

"We  oughtn't  to  have  come  here,  mother,"  said  Paul. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said.  "We  won't  come  again." 

She  insisted  on  his  having  a  small  currant  tart,  because  he 
liked  sweets. 

"I  don't  want  it,  mother,"  he  pleaded. 

"Yes,"  she  insisted;  "you'll  have  it." 

And  she  looked  round  for  the  waitress.  But  the  waitress 
Was  busy,  and  Mrs.  Morel  did  not  like  to  bother  her  then. 
So  the  mother  and  son  waited  for  the  girl's  pleasure,  whilst 
she  flirted  among  the  men. 

"Brazen  hussy!"  said  Mrs.  Morel  to  Paul.  "Look  now,  she's 
taking  that  man  his  pudding,  and  he  came  long  after  us." 

"It  doesn't  matter,  mother,"  said  Paul. 

Mrs.  Morel  was  angry.  But  she  was  too  poor,  and  her 
orders  were  too  meagre,  so  that  she  had  not  the  courage  to 
insist  on  her  rights  just  then.  They  waited  and  waited. 

"Should  we  go,  mother?"  he  said. 

Then  Mrs.  Morel  stood  up.  The  girl  was  passing  near. 

"Will  you  bring  one  currant  tart?"  said  Mrs.  Morel 
clearly. 

The  girl  looked  round  insolently. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  11 J 

"Directly,"  she  said. 

"We  have  waited  quite  long  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

In  a  moment  the  girl  came  back  with  the  tart.  Mrs.  Morel 
asked  coldly  for  the  bill.  Paul  wanted  to  sink  through  the 
floor.  He  marvelled  at  his  mother's  hardness.  He  knew  that 
only  years  of  battling  had  taught  her  to  insist  even  so  little 
on  her  rights.  She  shrank  as  much  as  he. 

"It's  the  last  time  I  go  there  for  anything!"  she  declared, 
when  they  were  outside  the  place,  thankful  to  be  clear. 

"We'll  go,"  she  said,  "and  look  at  Keep's  and  Boot's,  and 
one  or  two  places,  shall  we?" 

They  had  discussions  over  the  pictures,  and  Mrs.  Morel 
wanted  to  buy  him  a  little  sable  brush  that  he  hankered  after. 
But  this  indulgence  he  refused.  He  stood  in  front  of  milli- 
ners' shops  and  drapers'  shops  almost  bored,  but  content  for 
her  to  be  interested.  They  wandered  on. 

"Now,  just  look  at  those  black  grapes!"  she  said.  "They 
make  your  mouth  water.  I've  wanted  some  of  those  for 
years,  but  I  s'll  have  to  wait  a  bit  before  I  get  them." 

Then  she  rejoiced  in  the  florists,  standing  in  the  doorway 
sniffing. 

"Oh!  oh!  Isn't  it  simply  lovely!" 

Paul  saw,  in  the  darkness  of  the  shop,  an  elegant  young 
lady  in  black  peering  over  the  counter  curiously. 

"They're  looking  at  you,"  he  said,  trying  to  draw  his 
mother  away. 

"But  what  is  it?"  she  exclaimed,  refusing  to  be  moved. 

"Stocks!"  he  answered,  sniffing  hastily.  "Look  there's  a 
tubful." 

"So  there  is— red  and  white.  But  really,  I  never  knew 
stocks  to  smell  like  it!"  And,  to  his  great  relief,  she  moved 
out  of  the  doorway,  but  only  to  stand  in  front  of  the 
window. 

"Paul!"  she  cried  to  him,  who  was  trying  to  get  out  of 
sight  of  the  elegant  young  lady  in  black— the  shop-girl. 
"Paul!  Just  look  here!" 

He  came  reluctantly  back. 

"Now,  just  look  at  that  fuchsia!"  she  exclaimed,  pointing. 


1 1 8  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"H'm!"  He  made  a  curious,  interested  sound.  "You'd 
think  every  second  as  the  flowers  was  going  to  fall  off,  they 
hang  so  big  an'  heavy." 

"And  such  an  abundance!"  she  cried. 

"And  the  way  they  drop  downwards  with  their  threads 
tnd  knots!" 

"Yes!"  she  exclaimed.  "Lovely!" 

"I  wonder  who'll  buy  it!"  he  said. 

"I  wonder!"  she  answered.  "Not  us." 

"It  would  die  in  our  parlour." 

"Yes,  beastly  cold,  sunless  hole;  it  kills  every  bit  of  a 
plant  you  put  in,  and  the  kitchen  chokes  them  to  death." 

They  bought  a  few  things,  and  set  off  towards  the  station. 
Looking  up  the  canal,  through  the  dark  pass  of  the  buildings, 
vhey  saw  the  Castle  on  its  bluff  of  brown,  green-bushed  rock, 
in  a  positive  miracle  of  delicate  sunshine. 

"Won't  it  be  nice  for  me  to  come  out  at  dinner-times?" 
said  Paul.  "I  can  go  all  round  here  and  see  everything.  I  s'll 
love  it." 

"You  will,"  assented  his  mother. 

He  had  spent  a  perfect  afternoon  with  his  mother.  They 
arrived  home  in  the  mellow  evening,  happy,  and  glowing, 
and  tired. 

In  the  morning  he  filled  in  the  form  for  his  season-ticket 
and  took  it  to  the  station.  When  he  got  back,  his  mother  was 
just  beginning  to  wash  the  floor.  He  sat  crouched  up  on 
ihe  sofa. 

"He  says  it'll  be  here  by  Saturday,"  he  said. 

"And  how  much  will  it  be?" 

"About  one  pound  eleven,"  he  said. 

She  went  on  washing  her  floor  in  silence. 

"Is  it  a  lot?"  he  asked. 

"It's  no  more  than  I  thought,"  she  answered. 
"An'  I  s'll  earn  eight  shillings  a  week,"  he  said. 
She  did  not  answer,  but  went  on  with  her  work.  At  last 
whe  said: 

"That  William  promised  me,  when  he  went  to  London, 
he'd  give  me  a  pound  a  month.  He  has  given  me  ten 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  119 

shillings— twice;  and  now  I  know  he  hasn't  a  farthing  if  t 
asked  him.  Not  that  I  want  it.  Only  just  now  you'd  think 
he  might  be  able  to  help  with  this  ticket,  which  I'd  never 
expected." 

"He  earns  a  lot,"  said  Paul. 

"He  earns  a  hundred  and  thirty  pounds.  But  they're  all 
alike.  They're  large  in  promises,  but  it's  precious  little  ful- 
filment you  get." 

"He  spends  over  fifty  shillings  a  week  on  himself,"  said 
Paul. 

"And  I  keep  this  house  on  less  than  thirty,"  she  replied; 
"and  am  supposed  to  find  money  for  extras.  But  they  don't 
care  about  helping  you,  once  they've  gone.  He'd  rather 
spend  it  on  that  dressed-up  creature." 

"She  should  have  her  own  money  if  she's  so  grand,"  said 
Paul. 

"She  should,  but  she  hasn't.  I  asked  him.  And  /  know  he 
doesn't  buy  her  a  gold  bangle  for  nothing.  I  wonder  who- 
ever bought  me  a  gold  bangle." 

William  was  succeeding  with  his  "Gipsy,"  as  he  called 
her.  He  asked  the  girl— her  name  was  Louisa  Lily  Denys 
Western— for  a  photograph  to  send  to  his  mother.  The  photo 
came— a  handsome  brunette,  taken  in  profile,  smirking 
slightly— and,  it  might  be,  quite  naked,  for  on  the  photograph 
not  a  scrap  of  clothing  was  to  be  seen,  only  a  naked  bust. 

"Yes,"  wrote  Mrs.  Morel  to  her  son,  "the  photograph  of 
Louie  is  very  striking,  and  I  can  see  she  must  be  attractive. 
But  do  you  think,  my  boy,  it  was  very  good  taste  of  a  girl 
to  give  her  young  man  that  photo  to  send  to  his  mother— 
the  first?  Certainly  the  shoulders  are  beautiful,  as  you  say. 
But  I  hardly  expected  to  see  so  much  of  them  at  the  first 
view." 

Morel  found  the  photograph  standing  on  the  chiffonier 
in  the  parlour.  He  came  out  with  it  between  his  thick  thumb 
and  finger. 

"Who  dost  reckon  this  is?"  he  asked  of  his  wife. 
"It's  the  girl  our  William  is  going  with,"  replied  Mrs. 
Morel. 


120 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"H'm!  'Er's  a  bright  spark,  from  th'  look  on  'er,  an'  one 
as  wunna  do  him  owermuch  good  neither.  Who  is  she?" 

"Her  name  is  Louisa  Lily  Denys  Western." 

"An'  come  again  tomorrer!"  exclaimed  the  miner.  "An 
is  'er  an  actress?" 

"She  is  not.  She's  supposed  to  be  a  lady." 

"I'll  bet!"  he  exclaimed,  still  staring  at  the  photo.  "A 
lady,  is  she?  An'  how  much  does  she  reckon  ter  keep  up  this 
sort  o'  game  on?" 

"On  nothing.  She  lives  with  an  old  aunt,  whom  she  hates, 
and  takes  what  bit  of  money's  given  her." 

"H'm!"  said  Morel,  laying  down  the  photograph.  "Then 
he's  a  fool  to  ha'  ta'en  up  wi'  such  a  one  as  that." 

"Dear  Mater,"  William  replied.  "I'm  sorry  you  didn't  like 
the  photograph.  It  never  occurred  to  me  when  I  sent  it,  that 
you  mightn't  think  it  decent.  However,  I  told  Gyp  that  it 
didn't  quite  suit  your  prim  and  proper  notions,  so  she's  going 
co  send  you  another,  that  I  hope  will  please  you  better.  She's 
always  being  photographed;  in  fact,  the  photographers  ask 
her  if  they  may  take  her  for  nothing." 

Presently  the  new  photograph  came,  with  a  little  silly  note 
from  the  girl.  This  time  the  young  lady  was  seen  in  a  black 
satin  evening  bodice,  cut  square,  with  little  puff  sleeves,  and 
black  lace  hanging  down  her  beautiful  arms. 

"I  wonder  if  she  ever  wears  anything  except  evening 
clothes,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  sarcastically.  "I'm  sure  I  ought  to 
be  impressed." 

"You  are  disagreeable,  mother,"  said  Paul.  "I  think  the 
first  one  with  bare  shoulders  is  lovely." 

"Do  you?"  answered  his  mother.  "Well,  I  don't." 

On  the  Monday  morning  the  boy  got  up  at  six  to  start 
work.  He  had  the  season-ticket,  which  had  cost  such  bit- 
terness, in  his  waistcoat-pocket.  He  loved  it  with  its  bars 
of  yellow  across.  His  mother  packed  his  dinner  in  a  small, 
shut-up  basket,  and  he  set  off  at  a  quarter  to  seven  to  catch 
the  7.15  train.  Mrs.  Morel  came  to  the  entry-end  to  see 
mm  off. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  1 2  If 

It  was  a  perfect  morning.  From  the  ash-tree  the  slendei 
green  fruits  that  the  children  call  "pigeons"  were  twinkling 
gaily  down  on  a  little  breeze,  into  the  front  gardens  of  the 
houses.  The  valley  was  full  of  a  lustrous  dark  haze,  through 
which  the  ripe  corn  shimmered,  and  in  which  the  steam 
from  Minton  pit  melted  swiftly.  Puffs  of  wind  came.  Paul 
looked  over  the  high  woods  of  Aldersley,  where  the  country 
gleamed  and  home  had  never  pulled  at  him  so  powerfully. 

"Good-morning,  mother,"  he  said,  smiling,  but  feeling 
very  unhappy. 

"Good-morning,"  she  replied  cheerfully  and  tenderly. 

She  stood  in  her  white  apron  on  the  open  road,  watching 
him  as  he  crossed  the  field.  He  had  a  small,  compact  body 
that  looked  full  of  life.  She  felt,  as  she  saw  him  trudging  over 
the  field,  that  where  he  determined  to  go  he  would  get.  She 
thought  of  William.  He  would  have  leaped  the  fence  instead 
of  going  round  to  the  stile.  He  was  away  in  London,  doing 
well.  Paul  would  be  working  in  Nottingham.  Now  she  had 
two  sons  in  the  world.  She  could  think  of  two  places,  great 
centres  of  industry,  and  feel  that  she  had  put  a  man  into 
each  of  them,  that  these  men  would  work  out  what  she 
wanted;  they  were  derived  from  her,  they  were  of  her,  and 
their  works  also  would  be  hers.  All  the  morning  long  she 
thought  of  Paul. 

At  eight  o'clock  he  climbed  the  dismal  stairs  of  Jordan's 
Surgical  Appliance  Factory,  and  stood  helplessly  against  the 
first  great  parcel-rack,  waiting  for  somebody  to  pick  him 
up.  The  place  was  still  not  awake.  Over  the  counters  were 
great  dust  sheets.  Two  men  only  had  arrived,  and  were 
heard  talking  in  a  corner,  as  they  took  off  their  coats  and 
rolled  up  their  shirt-sleeves.  It  was  ten  past  eight.  Evidently 
there  was  no  rush  of  punctuality.  Paul  listened  to  the  voice 1 
of  the  two  clerks.  Then  he  heard  someone  cough,  and  saw  in 
the  office  at  the  end  of  the  room  an  old,  decaying  clerk,  in 
a  round  smoking-cap  of  black  velvet  embroidered  with  red 
and  green,  opening  letters.  He  waited  and  waited.  One  of 
the  junior  clerks  went  to  the  old  man,  greeted  him  cheerily 


122 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


and  loudly.  Evidently  the  old  "chief"  was  deaf.  Then  the 
young  fellow  came  striding  importantly  down  to  his  coun- 
ter. He  spied  Paul. 

"Hello!"  he  said.  "You  the  new  lad?" 

"Yes,"  said  Paul 

"H'm!  What's  your  name?" 

"Paul  Morel." 

"Paul  Morel?  All  right,  you  come  on  round  here." 

Paul  followed  him  round  the  rectangle  of  counters.  The 
room  was  second  storey.  It  had  a  great  hole  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  fenced  as  with  a  wall  of  counters,  and  down  this 
wide  shaft  the  lifts  went,  and  the  light  for  the  bottom  storey. 
Also  there  was  a  corresponding  big,  oblong  hole  in  the 
ceiling,  and  one  could  see  above,  over  the  fence  of  the  top 
floor,  some  machinery;  and  right  away  overhead  was  the 
glass  roof,  and  all  light  for  the  three  storeys  came  down- 
wards, getting  dimmer,  so  that  it  was  always  night  on  the 
ground  floor  and  rather  gloomy  on  the  second  floor.  The 
factory  was  the  top  floor,  the  warehouse  the  second,  the 
storehouse  the  ground  floor.  It  was  an  insanitary,  ancient 
place. 

Paul  was  led  round  to  a  very  dark  corner. 

"This  is  the  'Spiral'  corner,"  said  the  clerk.  "You're  Spiral, 
with  Pappleworth.  He's  your  boss,  but  he's  not  come  yet. 
He  doesn't  get  here  till  half-past  eight.  So  you  can  fetch  the 
letters,  if  you  like,  from  Mr.  Melling  down  there." 

The  young  man  pointed  to  the  old  clerk  in  the  office. 

"All  right,"  said  Paul. 

"Here's  a  peg  to  hang  your  cap  on.  Here  are  your  entry 
ledgers.  Mr.  Pappleworth  won't  be  long." 

And  the  thin  young  man  stalked  away  with  long,  busy 
strides  over  the  hollow  wooden  floor. 

After  a  minute  or  two  Paul  went  down  and  stood  in 
the  door  of  the  glass  office.  The  old  clerk  in  the  smoking- 
cap  looked  down  over  the  rim  of  his  spectacles. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said,  kindly  and  impressively.  "You 
want  the  letters  for  the  Spiral  department,  Thomas?" 

Paul  resented  being  called  "Thomas."  But  he  took  the 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  1 23 

letters  and  returned  to  his  dark  place,  where  the  counter 
made  an  angle,  where  the  great  parcel-rack  came  to  an  end 
and  where  there  were  three  doors  in  the  corner.  He  sat  on  u 
high  stool  and  read  the  letters— those  whose  handwriting  was 
not  too  difficult.  They  ran  as  follows: 

"Will  you  please  send  me  at  once  a  pair  of  lady's  silk 
spiral  thigh-hose,  without  feet,  such  as  I  had  from  you  last 
year;  length,  thigh  to  knee,"  etc.  Or,  "Major  Chamberlain 
wishes  to  repeat  his  previous  order  for  a  silk  non-elastic  sus- 
pensory bandage." 

Many  of  these  letters,  some  of  them  in  French  or  Nor- 
wegian, were  a  great  puzzle  to  the  boy.  He  sat  on  his  stool 
nervously  awaiting  the  arrival  of  his  "boss."  He  suffered  tor- 
tures of  shyness  when,  at  half-past  eight,  the  factory  girls 
for  upstairs  trooped  past  him. 

Mr.  Pappleworth  arrived,  chewing  a  chlorodyne  gum,  at 
about  twenty  to  nine,  when  all  the  other  men  were  at  work. 
He  was  a  thin,  sallow  man  with  a  red  nose,  quick,  staccato, 
and  smartly  but  stiffly  dressed.  He  was  about  thirty-six 
years  old.  There  was  something  rather  "doggy,"  rather 
smart,  rather  'cute  and  shrewd,  and  something  warm,  and 
something  slightly  contemptible  about  him. 

"You  my  new  lad?"  he  said. 

Paul  stood  up  and  said  he  was. 

"Fetched  the  letters?" 

Mr.  Pappleworth  gave  a  chew  to  his  gum. 

"Yes." 

"Copied  'em?" 
"No." 

"Well,  come  on  then,  let's  look  slippy.  Changed  your 
coat?" 
"No." 

"You  want  to  bring  an  old  coat  and  leave  it  here."  He 
pronounced  the  last  words  with  the  chlorodyne  gum  be- 
tween his  side  teeth.  He  vanished  into  darkness  behind  the 
great  parcel-rack,  reappeared  coatless,  turning  up  a  smart 
striped  shirt-cuff  over  a  thin  and  hairy  arm.  Then  he  slipped 
into  his  coat.  Paul  noticed  how  thin  he  was,  and  that  his 


124  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

trousers  were  in  folds  behind.  He  seized  a  stool,  dragged  it 
beside  the  boy's,  and  sat  down. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said. 

Paul  took  a  seat. 

Mr.  Pappleworth  was  very  close  to  him.  The  man  seized 
the  letters,  snatched  a  long  entry-book  out  of  a  rack  in  front 
of  him,  flung  it  open,  seized  a  pen,  and  said: 

"Now  look  here.  You  want  to  copy  these  letters  in  here." 
He  sniffed  twice,  gave  a  quick  chew  at  his  gum,  stared  fix- 
edly at  a  letter,  then  went  very  still  and  absorbed  and  wrote 
the  entry  rapidly,  in  a  beautiful  flourishing  hand.  He  glanced 
quickly  at  Paul. 

"See  that?" 

"Yes." 

"Think  you  can  do  it  all  right?" 
"Yes." 

"All  right  then,  let's  see  you." 

He  sprang  off  his  stool.  Paul  took  a  pen.  Mr.  Pappleworth 
disappeared.  Paul  rather  liked  copying  the  letters,  but  he 
wrote  slowly,  laboriously,  and  exceedingly  badly.  He  was 
doing  the  fourth  letter,  and  feeling  quite  busy  and  happy, 
when  Mr.  Pappleworth  reappeared. 

"Now  then,  how'r'  yer  getting  on?  Done  'em?" 

He  leaned  over  the  boy's  shoulder,  chewing,  and  smelling  ' 
of  chlorodyne. 

"Strike  my  bob,  lad,  but  you're  a  beautiful  writer!"  he 
exclaimed  satirically.  "Ne'er  mind,  how  many  h'yer  done? 
Only  three!  I'd  'a'  eaten  'em.  Get  on,  my  lad,  an'  put  num- 
bers on  'em.  Here,  look!  Get  on!" 

Paul  ground  away  at  the  letters,  whilst  Mr.  Pappleworth 
fussed  over  various  jobs.  Suddenly  the  boy  started  as  a  shrill 
whistle  sounded  near  his  ear.  Mr.  Pappleworth  came,  took  a 
plug  out  of  a  pipe,  and  said,  in  an  amazingly  cross  and  bossy 
"oice: 

"Yes?" 

Paul  heard  a  faint  voice,  like  a  woman's,  out  of  the  mouth 
of  the  tube.  He  gazed  in  wonder,  never  having  seen  a 
speaking-tube  before. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  12$ 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Pappleworth  disagreeably  into  the  tube, 
"you'd  better  get  some  of  your  back  work  done,  then." 

Again  the  woman's  tiny  voice  was  heard,  sounding  pretty 
and  cross. 

"I've  not  time  to  stand  here  while  you  talk,"  said  Mr, 
Pappleworth,  and  he  pushed  the  plug  into  the  tube. 

"Come,  my  lad,"  he  said  imploringly  to  Paul,  "there's 
Polly  crying  out  for  them  orders.  Can't  you  buck  up  a  bit? 
Here,  come  out!" 

He  took  the  book,  to  Paul's  immense  chagrin,  and  began 
the  copying  himself.  He  worked  quickly  and  well.  This 
done,  he  seized  some  strips  of  long  yellow  paper,  about 
three  inches  wide,  and  made  out  the  day's  orders  for  the 
work-girls. 

"You'd  better  watch  me,"  he  said  to  Paul,  working  all 
the  while  rapidly.  Paul  watched  the  weird  little  drawings 
of  legs,  and  thighs,  and  ankles,  with  the  strokes  across  and 
the  numbers,  and  the  few  brief  directions  which  his  chief 
made  upon  the  yellow  paper.  Then  Mr.  Pappleworth  finished 
and  jumped  up. 

"Come  on  with  me,"  he  said,  and  the  yellow  papers  flying 
in  his  hands,  he  dashed  through  a  door  and  down  some 
stairs,  into  the  basement  where  the  gas  was  burning.  They 
crossed  the  cold,  damp  storeroom,  then  a  long,  dreary  room 
with  a  long  table  on  trestles,  into  a  smaller,  cosy  apartment^ 
not  very  high,  which  had  been  built  on  to  the  main  build- 
ing. In  this  room  a  small  woman  with  a  red  serge  blouse,  anc? 
her  black  hair  done  on  top  of  her  head,  was  waiting  like  3 
proud  little  bantam. 

"Here  y'are!"  said  Pappleworth. 

"I  think  it  is  'here  you  are'!"  exclaimed  Polly.  "The  girls 
have  been  here  nearly  half  an  hour  waiting.  Just  think  of  thq 
time  wasted!" 

"You  think  of  getting  your  work  done  and  not  talking  sc 
much,"  said  Mr.  Pappleworth.  "You  could  ha'  been  finish- 
ing off." 

"You  know  quite  well  we  finished  everything  off  on  Sat- 
urday!" cried  Polly,  flying  at  him,  her  dark  eyes  flashing. 


126 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"Tu-tu-tu-tu-terterter!"  he  mocked.  "Here's  your  new 
lad.  Don't  ruin  him  as  you  did  the  last." 

"  'As  we  did  the  last'!"  repeated  Polly.  "Yes,  we  do  a  lot 
of  ruining,  we  do.  My  word,  a  lad  would  take  some  ruining 
after  he'd  been  with  you." 

"It's  time  for  work  now,  not  for  talk,"  said  Mr.  Papple- 
worth  severely  and  coldly. 

"It  was  time  for  work  some  time  back,"  said  Polly,  march- 
ing away  with  her  head  in  the  air.  She  was  an  erect  little 
body  of  forty. 

In  that  room  were  two  round  spiral  machines  on  the 
bench  under  the  window.  Through  the  inner  doorway  was 
another,  longer  room,  with  six  more  machines.  A  little  group 
of  girls,  nicely  dressed  and  in  white  aprons,  stood  talking 
together. 

"Have  you  nothing  else  to  do  but  talk?"  said  Mr.  Papple- 
worth. 

"Only  wait  for  you,"  said  one  handsome  girl,  laughing. 

"Well,  get  on,  get  on,"  he  said.  "Come  on,  my  lad.  You'll 
know  your  road  down  here  again." 

And  Paul  ran  upstairs  after  his  chief.  He  was  given  some 
checking  and  invoicing  to  do.  He  stood  at  the  desk,  labour- 
ing in  his  execrable  handwriting.  Presently  Mr.  Jordan  came 
strutting  down  from  the  glass  office  and  stood  behind  him, 
to  the  boy's  great  discomfort.  Suddenly  a  red  and  fat  finger 
was  thrust  on  the  form  he  was  filling  in. 

"Mr.  J.  A.  Bates,  Esquire!"  exclaimed  the  cross  voice  just 
behind  his  ear. 

Paul  looked  at  "Mr.  J.  A.  Bates,  Esquire"  in  his  own  vile 
writing,  and  wondered  what  was  the  matter  now. 

"Didn't  they  teach  you  any  better  than  that  while  they 
were  at  it?  If  you  put  'Mr.'  you  don't  put  'Esquire'— a  man 
can't  be  both  at  once." 

The  boy  regretted  his  too-much  generosity  in  disposing 
of  honours,  hesitated,  and  with  trembling  fingers,  scratched 
out  the  "Mr."  Then  all  at  once  Mr.  Jordan  snatched  away 
the  invoice. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  1 27 

"Make  another!  Are  you  going  to  send  that  to  a  gentle- 
man?" And  he  tore  up  the  blue  form  irritably. 

Paul,  his  ears  red  with  shame,  began  again.  Still  Mr.  Jordan 
watched. 

"I  don't  know  what  they  do  teach  in  school.  You'll  havo 
to  write  better  than  that.  Lads  learn  nothing  nowadays,  but 
how  to  recite  poetry  and  play  the  fiddle.  Have  you  seen  hi* 
writing?"  he  asked  of  Mr.  Pappleworth. 

"Yes;  prime,  isn't  it?"  replied  Mr.  Pappleworth  indif- 
ferently. 

Mr.  Jordan  gave  a  little  grunt,  not  unamiable.  Paul  divined 
that  his  master's  bark  was  worse  than  his  bite.  Indeed,  the 
little  manufacturer,  although  he  spoke  bad  English,  was  quite 
gentleman  enough  to  leave  his  men  alone  and  to  take  no 
notice  of  trifles.  But  he  knew  he  did  not  look  like  the  boss 
and  owner  of  the  show,  so  he  had  to  play  his  role  of  pro- 
prietor at  first,  to  put  things  on  a  right  footing. 

"Let's  see,  what's  your  name?"  asked  Mr.  Pappleworth 
of  the  boy. 

"Paul  Morel." 

It  is  curious  that  children  suffer  so  much-  at  having  to 
pronounce  their  own  names. 

"Paul  Morel,  is  it?  All  right,  you  Paul-Morel  through  them 
things  there,  and  then  " 

Mr.  Pappleworth  subsided  on  to  a  stool,  and  began  writ- 
ing. A  girl  came  up  from  out  of  a  door  just  behind,  put  some 
newly  pressed  elastic  web  appliances  on  the  counter,  and 
returned.  Mr.  Pappleworth  picked  up  the  whitey-blue  knee- 
band,  examined  it,  and  its  yellow  order-paper  quickly,  and 
put  it  on  one  side.  Next  was  a  flesh-pink  "leg."  He  went 
through  the  few  things,  wrote  out  a  couple  of  orders,  and 
called  to  Paul  to  accompany  him.  This  time  they  went 
through  the  door  whence  the  girl  had  emerged.  There  Paul 
found  himself  at  the  top  of  a  little  wooden  flight  of  steps, 
and  below  him  saw  a  room  with  windows  round  two  sides, 
and  at  the  farther  end  half  a  dozen  girls  sitting  bending  ovet 
the  benches  in  the  light  from  the  window,  sewing.  Thejf 


128 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


were  singing  together  "Two  Little  Girls  in  Blue."  Hearing 
the  door  opened,  they  all  turned  round,  to  see  Mr.  Papple- 
worth  and  Paul  looking  down  on  them  from  the  far  end  of 
the  room.  They  stopped  singing. 

uCan't  you  make  a  bit  less  row?"  said  Mr.  Pappleworth. 
"Folk'll  think  we  keep  cats." 

A  hunchback  woman  on  a  high  stool  turned  her  long, 
rather  heavy  face  towards  Mr.  Pappleworth,  and  said,  in 
a  contralto  voice: 

"They're  all  tom-cats  then." 

In  vain  Mr.  Pappleworth  tried  to  be  impressive  for  Paul's 
benefit.  He  descended  the  steps  into  the  finishing-off  room, 
and  went  to  the  hunchback  Fanny.  She  had  such  a  short 
body  on  her  high  stool  that  her  head,  with  its  great  bands 
of  bright  brown  hair,  seemed  over  large,  as  did  her  pale, 
heavy  face.  She  wore  a  dress  of  green-black  cashmere,  and 
her  wrists,  coming  out  of  the  narrow  cuffs,  were  thin  and 
flat,  as  she  put  down  her  work  nervously.  He  showed  her 
something  that  was  wrohg  with  a  knee-cap. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "you  needn't  come  blaming  it  on  to  me. 
It's  not  my  fault."  Her  colour  mounted  to  her  cheek. 

"I  never  said  it  was  your  fault.  Will  you  do  as  I  tell  you?" 
replied  Mr.  Pappleworth  shortly. 

"You  don't  say  it's  my  fault,  but  you'd  like  to  make  out  as 
it  was,"  the  hunchback  woman  cried,  almost  in  tears.  Then 
she  snatched  the  knee-cap  from  her  "boss,"  saying:  "Yes, 
I'll  do  it  for  you,  but  you  needn't  be  snappy." 

"Here's  your  new  lad,"  said  Mr.  Pappleworth. 

Fanny  turned,  smiling  very  gently  on  Paul. 

"Oh!"  she  said. 

"Yes;  don't  make  a  softy  of  him  between  you." 
"It's  not  us  as  'ud  make  a  softy  of  him,"  she  said  indig- 
nantly. 

"Come  on  then,  Paul,"  said  Mr.  Pappleworth. 
"Au  revoy,  Paul,"  said  one  of  the  girls. 
There  was  a  titter  of  laughter.  Paul  went  out,  blushing 
deeply,  not  having  spoken  a  word. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  I  29 

The  day  was  very  long.  All  morning  the  work-people 
were  coming  to  speak  to  Mr.  Pappleworth.  Paul  was  writing 
or  learning  to  make  up  parcels,  ready  for  the  midday  post 
At  one  o'clock,  or,  rather,  at  a  quarter  to  one,  Mr.  Papple^ 
worth  disappeared  to  catch  his  train;  he  lived  in  the  suburbs. 
At  one  o'clock,  Paul,  feeling  very  lost,  took  his  dinner-basket 
down  into  the  stockroom  in  the  basement,  that  had  the  long 
table  on  trestles,  and  ate  his  meal  hurriedly,  alone  in  that 
cellar  of  gloom  and  desolation.  Then  he  went  out  of  doors, 
The  brightness  and  the  freedom  of  the  streets  made  him  feel 
adventurous  and  happy.  But  at  two  o'clock  he  was  back  in 
the  corner  of  the  big  room.  Soon  the  work-girls  went  troop- 
ing past,  making  remarks.  It  was  the  commoner  girls  who 
worked  upstairs  at  the  heavy  tasks  of  truss-making  and  the 
finishing  of  artificial  limbs.  He  waited  for  Mr.  Pappleworth, 
not  knowing  what  to  do,  sitting  scribbling  on  the  yellow 
order-paper.  Mr.  Pappleworth  came  at  twenty  minutes  to 
three.  Then  he  sat  and  gossiped  with  Paul,  treating  the  boy 
entirely  as  an  equal,  even  in  age. 

In  the  afternoon  there  was  never  very  much  to  do,  unless 
it  were  near  the  week-end,  and  the  accounts  had  to  be  made 
up.  At  five  o'clock  all  the  men  went  down  into  the  dungeon 
with  the  table  on  trestles,  and  there  they  had  tea,  eating 
bread-and-butter  on  the  bare,  dirty  boards,  talking  with  the 
same  kind  of  ugly  haste  and  slovenliness  with  which  they  ate 
their  meal.  And  yet  upstairs  the  atmosphere  among  them  was 
always  jolly  and  clear.  The  cellar  and  the  trestles  affected 
them. 

After  tea,  when  all  the  gases  were  lighted,  work  went 
more  briskly.  There  was  the  big  evening  post  to  get  off. 
The  hose  came  up  warm  and  newly  pressed  from  the  work- 
rooms. Paul  had  made  out  the  invoices.  Now  he  had  the 
packing  up  and  addressing  to  do,  then  he  had  to  weigh  his 
stock  of  parcels  on  the  scales.  Everywhere  voices  were  call- 
ing weights,  there  was  the  chink  of  metal,  the  rapid  snapping 
of  string,  the  hurrying  to  old  Mr.  Melling  for  stamps.  And 
at  last  the  postman  came  with  his  sack,  laughing  and  jolly. 


/ 


130  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Then  everything  slacked  off,  and  Paul  took  his  dinner- 
basket  and  ran  to  the  station  to  catch  the  eight-twenty  train. 
The  day  in  the  factory  was  just  twelve  hours  long. 

His  mother  sat  waiting  for  him  rather  anxiously.  He  had 
to  walk  from  Keston,  so  was  not  home  until  about  twenty 
past  nine.  And  he  left  the  house  before  seven  in  the  morning. 
Mrs.  Morel  was  rather  anxious  about  his  health.  But  she 
herself  had  had  to  put  up  with  so  much  that  she  expected 
her  children  to  take  the  same  odds.  They  must  go  through 
with  what  came.  And  Paul  stayed  at  Jordan's,  although  all 
the  time  he  was  there  his  health  suffered  from  the  dark- 
ness and  lack  of  air  and  the  long  hours. 

He  came  in  pale  and  tired.  His  mother  looked  at  him.  She 
saw  he  was  rather  pleased,  and  her  anxiety  all  went. 

"Well,  and  how  was  it?"  she  asked. 

"Ever  so  funny,  mother,"  he  replied.  "You  don't  have  to 
work  a  bit  hard,  and  they're  nice  with  you." 

"And  did  you  get  on  all  right?" 

"Yes;  they  only  say  my  writing's  bad.  But  Mr.  Papple- 
worth— he's  my  man— said  to  Mr.  Jordan  I  should  be  all 
right.  I'm  Spiral,  mother;  you  must  come  and*  see.  It's  ever 
so  nice." 

Soon  he  liked  Jordan's.  Mr.  Pappleworth,  who  had  a  cer- 
tain "saloon  bar"  flavour  about  him,  was  always  natural,  and 
treated  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  comrade.  Sometimes  the 
"Spiral  boss"  was  irritable,  and  chewed  more  lozenges  than 
ever.  Even  then,  however,  he  was  not  offensive,  but  one  of 
those  people  who  hurt  themselves  by  their  own  irritability 
more  than  they  hurt  other  people. 

"Haven't  you  done  that  yetV"  he  would  cry.  "Go  on,  be  a 
month  of  Sundays." 

Again,  and  Paul  could  understand  him  least  then,  he  was 
jocular  and  in  high  spirits. 

"I'm  going  to  bring  my  little  Yorkshire  terrier  bitch  to- 
morrow," he  said  jubilantly  to  Paul. 

"What's  a  Yorkshire  terrier?" 

"Don't  know  what  a  Yorkshire  terrier  is?  Don't  know  a 
Yorkshire—''  Mr.  Pappleworth  was  aghast. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  I3I 

"Is  it  a  little  silky  one— colours  of  iron  and  rusty  silver?*" 
"That's  it,  my  lad.  She's  a  gem.  She's  had  five  pounds' 
worth  of  pups  already,  and  she's  worth  over  seven  pounds 
herself;  and  she  doesn't  weigh  twenty  ounces." 

The  next  day  the  bitch  came.  She  was  a  shivering,  mis- 
erable morsel.  Paul  did  not  care  for  her;  she  seemed  so  like 
a  wet  rag  that  would  never  dry.  Then  a  man  called  for  her, 
and  began  to  make  coarse  jokes.  But  Mr.  Pappleworth  nodded 
his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  boy  and  the  talk  went  on 
sotto  voce. 

Mr.  Jordan  only  made  one  more  excursion  to  watch  Paul, 
and  then  the  only  fault  he  found  was  seeing  the  boy  lay  his 
pen  on  the  counter. 

"Put  your  pen  in  your  ear,  if  you're  going  to  be  a  clerk. 
Pen  in  your  ear!"  And  one  day  he  said  to  the  lad,  "Why 
don't  you  hold  your  shoulders  straighter?  Come  down  here," 
when  he  took  him  into  the  glass  office  and  fitted  him  with 
special  braces  for  keeping  the  shoulders  square. 

But  Paul  liked  the  girls  best.  The  men  seemed  common 
and  rather  dull.  He  liked  them  all,  but  they  were  uninter- 
esting. Polly,  the  little  brisk  overseer  downstairs,  finding 
Paul  eating  in  the  cellar,  asked  him  if  she  could  cook  him 
anything  on  her  little  stove.  Next  day  his  mother  gave  him 
a  dish  that  could  be  heated  up.  He  took  it  into  the  pleasant, 
clean  room  to  Polly.  And  very  soon  it  grew  to  be  an  estab- 
lished custom  that  he  should  have  dinner  with  her.  When  he 
came  in  at  eight  in  the  morning  he  took  his  basket  to  her, 
and  when  he  came  down  at  one  o'clock  she  had  his  dinner 
ready. 

He  was  not  very  tall,  and  pale,  with  thick  chestnut  hair, 
irregular  features,  and  a  wide,  full  mouth.  She  was  like  a 
small  bird.  He  often  called  her  a  "robinet."  Though  nattu 
rally  rather  quiet,  he  would  sit  and  chatter  with  her  iox 
hours,  telling  her  about  his  home.  The  girls  all  liked  to 
hear  him  talk.  They  often  gathered  in  a  little  circle  while 
he  sat  on  a  bench,  and  held  forth  to  them,  laughing.  Some 
of  them  regarded  him  as  a  curious  little  creature,  so  serious, 
yet  so  bright  and  jolly,  and  always  so  delicate  in  his  way 


I32  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

with  them.  They  all  liked  him,  and  he  adored  them.  Polly 
he  felt  he  belonged  to.  Then  Connie,  with  her  mane  of  red 
hair,  her  face  of  apple-blossom,  her  murmuring  voice,  such 
a  lady  in  her  shabby  black  frock,  appealed  to  his  romantic 
side. 

"When  you  sit  winding,"  he  said,  "it  looks  as  if  you  were 
spinning  at  a  spinning-wheel— it  looks  ever  so  nice.  You  re- 
mind me  of  Elaine  in  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  I'd  draw  you 
if  I  could." 

And  she  glanced  at  him  blushing  shyly.  And  later  on  he 
had  a  sketch  he  prized  very  much:  Connie  sitting  on  the 
stool  before  the  wheel,  her  flowing  mane  of  red  hair  on  her 
rusty  black  frock,  her  red  mouth  shut  and  serious,  running 
the  scarlet  thread  off  the  hank  on  to  the  reel. 

With  Louie,  handsome  and  brazen,  who  always  seemed 
to  thrust  her  hip  at  him,  he  usually  joked. 

Emma  was  rather  plain,  rather  old,  and  condescending. 
But  to  condescend  to  him  made  her  happy,  and  he  did  not 
vnind. 

"How  do  you  put  needles  in?"  he  asked. 
"Go  away  and  don't  bother." 
"But  I  ought  to  know  how  to  put  needles  in." 
She  ground  at  her  machine  all  the  while  steadily. 
"There  are  many  things  you  ought  to  know,"  she  replied. 
"Tell  me,  then,  how  to  stick  needles  in  the  machine." 
"Oh,  the  boy,  what  a  nuisance  he  is!  Why,  this  is  how 
you  do  it." 

He  watched  her  attentively.  Suddenly  a  whistle  piped. 
Then  Polly  appeared,  and  said  in  a  clear  voice: 

"Mr.  Pappleworth  wants  to  know  how  much  longer 
you're  going  to  be  down  here  playing  with  the  girls,  Paul." 

Paul  flew  upstairs,  calling  "Good-bye!"  and  Emma  drew 
herself  up. 

"It  wasn't  me  who  wanted  him  to  play  with  the  ma- 
chine," she  said. 

As  a  rule,  when  all  the  girls  came  back  at  two  o'clock,  he 
ran  upstairs  to  Fanny,  the  hunchback,  in  the  finishing-off 
room.  Mr.  Pappleworth  did  not  appear  till  twenty  to  three, 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  1 33 

and  he  often  found  his  boy  sitting  beside  Fanny,  talking,  or 
drawing,  or  singing  with  the  girls. 

Often,  after  a  minute's  hesitation,  Fanny  would  begin 
to  sing.  She  had  a  fine  contralto  voice.  Everybody  joined 
in  the  chorus,  and  it  went  well.  Paul  was  not  at  all  embar- 
rassed, after  a  while,  sitting  in  the  room  with  the  half  a  dozen 
work-girls. 

At  the  end  of  the  song  Fanny  would  say: 

"I  know  you've  been  laughing  at  me." 

"Don't  be  so  soft,  Fanny!"  cried  one  of  the  girls. 

Once  there  was  mention  of  Connie's  red  hair. 

"Fanny's  is  better,  to  my  fancy,"  said  Emma. 

"You  needn't  try  to  make  a  fool  of  me,"  said  Fanny,  flush- 
ing deeply. 

"No,  but  she  has,  Paul;  she's  got  beautiful  hair." 

"It's  a  treat  of  a  colour,"  said  he.  "That  coldish  colour, 
like  earth,  and  yet  shiny.  It's  like  bog-water." 

"Goodness  me!"  exclaimed  one  girl,  laughing. 

"How  I  do  but  get  criticized,"  said  Fanny. 

"But  you  should  see  it  down,  Paul,"  cried  Emma  earnestly. 
"It's  simply  beautiful.  Put  it  down  for  him,  Fanny,  if  he 
wants  something  to  paint." 

Fanny  would  not,  and  yet  she  wanted  to. 

"Then  I'll  take  it  down  myself,"  said  the  lad. 

"Well,  you  can  if  you  like,"  said  Fanny. 

And  he  carefully  took  the  pins  out  of  the  knot,  and  the 
rush  of  hair,  of  uniform  dark  brown,  slid  over  the  humped 
back. 

"What  a  lovely  lot!"  he  exclaimed. 

The  girls  watched.  There  was  silence.  The  youth  shook 
the  hair  loose  from  the  .coil. 

"It's  splendid!"  he  said,  smelling  its  perfume.  "I'll  bet  it's 
worth  pounds." 

"I'll  leave  it  you  when  I  die,  Paul,"  said  Fanny,  half  joking. 

"You  look  just  like  anybody  else,  sitting  drying  their 
hair,"  said  one  of  the  girls  to  the  long-legged  hunchback. 

Poor  Fanny  was  morbidly  sensitive,  always  imagining  in- 
sults. Polly  was  curt  and  businesslike.  The  two  departments 


134  S0NS  AND  LOVERS 

were  for  ever  at  war,  and  Paul  was  always  finding  Fanny  in 
tears.  Then  he  was  made  the  recipient  of  all  her  woes,  and  he 
had  to  plead  her  cause  with  Polly. 

So  the  time  went  along  happily  enough.  The  factory  had 
a  homely  feel.  No  one  was  rushed  or  driven.  Paul  always 
enjoyed  it  when  the  work  got  faster,  towards  post-time,  and 
all  the  men  united  in  labour.  He  liked  to  watch  his  fellow 
clerks  at  work.  The  man  was  the  work  and  the  work  was 
the  man,  one  thing,  for  the  time  being.  It  was  different  with 
the  girls.  The  real  woman  never  seemed  to  be  there  at  the 
task,  but  as  if  left  out,  waiting. 

From  the  train  going  home  at  night  he  used  to  watch  the 
lights  of  the  town,  sprinkled  thick  on  the  hills,  fusing  to- 
gether in  a  blaze  in  the  valleys.  He  felt  rich  in  life  and  happy. 
Drawing  farther  off,  there  was  a  patch  of  lights  at  Bulwell 
like  myriad  petals  shaken  to  the  ground  from  the  shed  stars; 
and  beyond  was  the  red  glare  of  the  furnaces,  playing  like 
hot  breath  on  the  clouds. 

He  had  to  walk  two  and  more  miles  from  Keston  home, 
up  two  long  hills,  down  two  short  hills.  He  was  often  tired, 
and  he  counted  the  lamps  climbing  the  hill  above  him,  how 
many  more  to  pass.  And  from  the  hill-top,  on  pitch-dark 
nights,  he  looked  round  on  the  villages  five  or  six  miles  away, 
that  shone  like  swarms  of  glittering  living  things,  almost  a 
heaven  against  his  feet.  Marlpool  and  Heanor  scattered  the 
far-off  darkness  with  brilliance.  And  occasionally  the  black 
valley  space  between  was  traced,  violated  by  a  great  train 
rushing  south  to  London  or  north  to  Scotland.  The  trains 
roared  by  like  projectiles  level  on  the  darkness,  fuming  and 
burning,  making  the  valley  clang  with  their  passage.  They 
were  gone,  and  the  lights  of  the  towns  and  villages  glittered 
in  silence. 

And  then  he  came  to  the  corner  at  home,  which  faced  the 
other  side  of  the  night.  The  ash-tree  seemed  a  friend  now. 
His  mother  rose  with  gladness  as  he  entered.  He  put  his 
tight  shillings  proudly  on  the  table. 

"It'll  help,  mother? "  he  asked  wistfully. 


PAUL  LAUNCHES  INTO  LIFE  1 35 

"There's  precious  little  left,"  she  answered,  "after  your 
ticket  and  dinners  and  such  are  taken  off." 

Then  he  told  her  the  budget  of  the  day.  His  life-story, 
like  an  Arabian  Nights,  was  told  night  after  night  to  his 
mother.  It  was  almost  as  if  it  were  her  own  life. 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

CHAPTER  VI 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY 


ARTHUR  MOREL  was  growing  up.  He  was  a  quick, 
.  careless,  impulsive  boy,  a  good  deal  like  his  father.  He 
hated  study,  made  a  great  moan  if  he  had  to  work,  and 
escaped  as  soon  as  possible  to  his  sport  again. 

In  appearance  he  remained  the  flower  of  the  family,  being 
well  made,  graceful,  and  full  of  life.  His  dark  brown  hair  and 
fresh  colouring,  and  his  exquisite  dark  blue  eyes  shaded  with 
long  lashes,  together  with  his  generous  manner  and  fiery 
temper,  made  him  a  favourite.  But  as  he  grew  older  his 
temper  became  uncertain.  He  flew  into  rages  over  nothing, 
seemed  unbearably  raw  and  irritable. 

His  mother,  whom  he  loved,  wearied  of  him  sometimes. 
He  thought  only  of  himself.  When  he  wanted  amusement, 
all  that  stood  in  his  way  he  hated,  even  if  it  were  she.  When 
he  was  in  trouble,  he  moaned  to  her  ceaselessly. 

"Goodness,  boy!"  she  said,  when  he  groaned  about  a  mas- 
ter who,  he  said,  hated  him,  "if  you  don't  like  it,  alter  it,  and 
if  you  can't  alter  it,  put  up  with  it." 

And  his  father,  whom  he  had  loved  and  who  had  wor- 
shipped him,  he  came  to  detest.  As  he  grew  older  Morel  fell 
into  a  slow  ruin.  His  body,  which  had  been  beautiful  in 
movement  and  in  being,  shrank,  did  not  seem  to  ripen  with 
the  years,  but  to  get  mean  and  rather  despicable.  There  came 
over  him  a  look  of  meanness  and  of  paltriness.  And  when  the 
mean-looking  elderly  man  bullied  or  ordered  the  boy  about, 
Arthur  was  furious.  Moreover,  Morel's  manners  got  worse 
and  worse,  his  habits  somewhat  disgusting.  When  the  chil- 
dren were  growing  up  and  in  the  crucial  stage  of  ado- 

136 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 37 

lescence,  the  father  was  like  some  ugly  irritant  to  their  souls. 
His  manners  in  the  house  were  the  same  as  he  used  among 
the  colliers  down  pit. 

"Dirty  nuisance!"  Arthur  would  cry,  jumping  up  and 
going  straight  out  of  the  house  when  his  father  disgusted 
him.  And  Morel  persisted  the  more  because  his  children 
hated  it.  He  seemed  to  take  a  kind  of  satisfaction  in  dis-  ) 
gusting  them,  and  driving  them  nearly  mad,  while  they  were 
so  irritably  sensitive  at  the  age  of  fourteen  or  fifteen.  So  that 
Arthur,  who  was  growing  up  when  his  father  was  degenerate 
and  elderly,  hated  him  worst  of  all. 

Then,  sometimes,  the  father  would  seem  to  feel  the  con- 
temptuous hatred  of  his  children. 

"There's  not  a  man  tries  harder  for  his  family!"  he  would 
shout.  "He  does  his  best  for  them,  and  then  gets  treated  like 
a  dog.  But  I'm  not  going  to  stand  it,  I  tell  you!" 

But  for  the  threat  and  the  fact  that  he  did  not  try  so  hard 
as  he  imagined,  they  would  have  felt  sorry.  As  it  was,  the 
battle  now  went  on  nearly  all  between  father  and  children, 
he  persisting  in  his  dirty  and  disgusting  ways,  just  to  assert 
his  independence.  They  loathed  him. 

Arthur  was  so  inflamed  and  irritable  at  last,  that  when  he 
won  a  scholarship  for  the  Grammar  School  in  Nottingham, 
his  mother  decided  to  let  him  live  in  town,  with  one  of  her 
sisters,  and  only  come  home  at  week-ends. 

Annie  was  still  a  junior  teacher  in  the  Board-school,  earn-N 
ing  about  four  shillings  a  week.  But  soon  she  would  have 
fifteen  shillings,  since  she  had  passed  her  examination,  and 
there  would  be  financial  peace  in  the  house. 

Mrs.  Morel  clung  now  to  Paul.  He  was  quiet  and  not 
brilliant.  But  still  he  stuck  to  his  painting,  and  still  he  stuck 
to  his  mother.  Everything  he  did  was  for  her.  She  waited 
for  his  coming  home  in  the  evening,  and  then  she  unbur- 
dened herself  of  all  she  had  pondered,  or  of  all  that  had  oc- 
curred to  her  during  the  day.  He  sat  and  listened  with  his 
earnestness.  The  two  shared  lives. 

William  was  engaged  now  to  his  brunette,  and  had  bought 


I38  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

her  an  engagement  ring  that  cost  eight  guineas.  The  children 
gasped  at  such  a  fabulous  price. 

"Eight  guineas!"  said  Morel.  "More  fool  him!  If  he'd  gen 
me  some  on't,  it  'ud  ha'  looked  better  on  'im." 

"Given  you  some  of  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Morel.  "Why  give 
you  some  of  it!" 

She  remembered  he  had  bought  no  engagement  ring  at 
all,  and  she  preferred  William,  who  was  not  mean,  if 
he  were  foolish.  But  now  the  young  man  talked  only  of 
the  dances  to  which  he  went  with  his  betrothed,  and  the 
different  resplendent  clothes  she  wore;  or  he  told  his 
mother  with  glee  how  they  went  to  the  theatre  like  great 
swells. 

He  wanted  to  bring  the  girl  home.  Mrs.  Morel  said  she 
should  come  at  the  Christmas.  This  time  William  arrived 
with  a  lady,  but  with  no  presents.  Mrs.  Morel  had  prepared 
flipper.  Hearing  footsteps,  she  rose  and  went  to  the  door. 
William  entered. 

"Hello,  mother!"  He  kissed  her  hastily,  then  stood  aside 
to  present  a  tall,  handsome  girl,  who  was  wearing  a  costume 
of  fine  black-and-white  check,  and  furs. 

"Here's  Gyp!" 

Miss  Western  held  out  her  hand  and  showed  her  teeth 
in  a  small  smile. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Morel!"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  be  hungry,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Oh,  no,  we  had  dinner  in  the  train.  Have  you  got  my 
gloves,  Chubby?" 

William  Morel,  big  and  raw-boned,  looked  at  her  quickly. 

"How  should  I?"  he  said. 

"Then  I've  lost  them.  Don't  be  cross  with  me." 

A  frown  went  over  his  face,  but  he  said  nothing.  She 
glanced  round  the  kitchen.  It  was  small  and  curious  to  her, 
with  its  glittering  kissing-bunch,  its  evergreens  behind  the 
pictures,  its  wooden  chairs  and  little  deal  table.  At  that  mo- 
ment Morel  came  in. 

"Hello,  dad!" 

"Hello,  my  son!  Tha's  let  on  me!" 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 39 

The  two  shook  hands,  and  William  presented  the  lady. 
She  gave  the  same  smile  that  showed  her  teeth. 
"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Morel?" 
Morel  bowed  obsequiously. 

"I'm  very  well,  and  I  hope  so  are  you.  You  must  make 
yourself  very  welcome." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  replied,  rather  amused. 

"You  will  like  to  go  upstairs,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"If  you  don't  mind;  but  not  if  it  is  any  trouble  to  you." 

"It  is  no  trouble.  Annie  will  take  you.  Walter,  carry  up 
this  box." 

"And  don't  be  an  hour  dressing  yourself  up,"  said  William 
to  his  betrothed. 

Annie  took  a  brass  candlestick,  and,  too  shy  almost  to 
speak,  preceded  the  young  lady  to  the  front  bedroom,  which 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morel  had  vacated  for  her.  It,  too,  was  small 
and  cold  by  candle-light.  The  colliers'  wives  only  lit  fires 
in  bedrooms  in  case  of  extreme  illness. 

"Shall  I  unstrap  the  box?"  asked  Annie. 

"Oh,  thank  you  very  much!" 

Annie  played  the  part  of  maid,  then  went  downstairs  for 
hot  water. 

"I  think  she's  rather  tired,  mother,"  said  William.  "It's 
a  beastly  journey,  and  we  had  such  a  rush." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  give  her?"  asked  Mrs.  Morel. 
"Oh,  no,  she'll  be  all  right." 

But  there  was  a  chill  in  the  atmosphere.  After  half  an  hour 
Miss  Western  came  down,  having  put  on  a  purplish-coloured 
dress,  very  fine  for  the  collier's  kitchen. 

"1  told  you  you'd  no  need  to  change,"  said  William  to  her. 

"Oh,  Chubby!"  Then  she  turned  with  that  sweetish  smile 
to  Mrs.  Morel.  "Don't  you  think  he's  always  grumbling, 
Mrs.  Morel?" 

"Is  he?"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "That's  not  very  nice  of  him.'' 
"It  isn't,  really!" 

"You  are  cold,"  said  the  mother.  "Won't  you  come  near 
the  fire?" 

Morel  jumped  out  of  his  arm-chair. 


140  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Come  and  sit  you  here!"  he  cried.  "Come  and  sit  you 
here!" 

"No,  dad,  keep  your  own  chair.  Sit  on  the  sofa,  Gyp," 
said  William. 

"No,  no!"  cried  Morel.  "This  cheer's  warmest.  Come 
and  sit  here,  Miss  Wesson." 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  said  the  girl,  seating  herself  in 
the  collier's  arm-chair,  the  place  of  honour.  She  shivered, 
feeling  the  warmth  of  the  kitchen  penetrate  her. 

"Fetch  me  a  hanky,  Chubby  dear!"  she  said,  putting  up 
her  mouth  to  him,  and  using  the  same  intimate  tone  as  if  they 
were  alone;  which  made  the  rest  of  the  family  feel  as  if  they 
ought  not  to  be  present.  The  young  lady  evidently  did  not 
realize  them  as  people:  they  were  creatures  to  her  for  the 
present.  William  winced. 

In  such  a  household,  in*Streatham,  Miss  Western  would 
have  been  a  lady  condescending  to  her  inferiors.  These 
people  were,  to  her,  certainly  clownish— in  short,  the  work- 
ing classes.  How  was  she  to  adjust  herself? 

"I'll  go,"  said  Annie. 

Miss  Western  took  no  notice,  as  if  a  servant  had  spoken. 
But  when  the  girl  came  downstairs  again  with  the  handker- 
chief, she  said,  "Oh,  thank  you!"  in  a  gracious  way. 

She  sat  and  talked  about  the  dinner  on  the  train,  which 
had  been  so  poor;  about  London,  about  dances.  She  was 
really  very  nervous,  and  chattered  from  fear.  Morel  sat  all 
the  time  smoking  his  thick  twist  tobacco,  watching  her,  and 
listening  to  her  glib  London  speech,  as  he  puffed.  Mrs. 
Morel,  dressed  up  in  her  best  black  silk  blouse,  answered 
quietly  and  rather  briefly.  The  three  children  sat  round  in 
silence  and  admiration.  Miss  Western  was  the  princess. 
Everything  of  the  best  was  got  out  for  her:  the  best  cups, 
the  best  spoons,  the  best  tablecloth,  the  best  coffee-jug.  The 
children  thought  she  must  find  it  quite  grand.  She  felt 
strange,  not  able  to  realize  the  people,  not  knowing  how  to 
treat  them.  William  joked,  and  was  slightly  uncomfortable. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  he  said  to  her: 

"Aren't  you  tired,  Gyp?" 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  141 

"Rather,  Chubby,"  she  answered,  at  once  in  the  intimate 
tones  and  putting  her  head  slightly  on  one  side. 
"I'll  light  her  the  candle,  mother,"  he  said. 
"Very  well,"  replied  the  mother. 

Miss  Western  stood  up,  held  out  her  hand  to  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Morel,"  she  said. 

Paul  sat  at  the  boiler,  letting  the  water  run  from  the  tap 
into  a  stone  beer-bottle.  Annie  swathed  the  bottle  in  an  old 
flannel  pit-singlet,  and  kissed  her  mother  good-night.  She 
was  to  share  the  room  with  the  lady,  because  the  house 
was  full. 

"You  wait  a  minute,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  to  Annie.  And 
Annie  sat  nursing  the  hot-water  bottle.  Miss  Western  shook 
hands  all  round,  to  everybody's  discomfort,  and  took  her 
departure,  preceded  by  William.  In  five  minutes  he  was 
downstairs  again.  His  heart  was  rather  sore:  he  did  not  know 
why.  He  talked  very  little  till  everybody  had  gone  to  bed, 
but  himself  and  his  mother.  Then  he  stood  with  his  legs 
apart,  in  his  old  attitude  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  said  hesi- 
tatingly: 

"Well,  mother?" 

"Well,  my  son?" 

She  sat  in  her  best  silk  blouse  in  the  rocking-chair,  feeling 
somehow  hurt  and  humiliated,  for  his  sake. 
"Do  you  like  her?" 
"Yes,"  came  the  slow  answer. 

"She's  shy  yet,  mother.  She's  not  used  to  it.  It's  different 
from  her  aunt's  house,  you  know." 

"Of  course  it  is,  my  boy;  and  she  must  find  it  difficult." 

"She  does."  Then  he  frowned  swiftly.  "If  only  she 
wouldn't  put  on  her  blessed  airs!" 

"It's  only  her  first  awkwardness,  my  boy.  She'll  be  all 
right." 

"That's  it,  mother,"  he  replied  gratefully.  But  his  brow 
was  gloomy.  "You  know,  she's  not  like  you,  mother.  She's 
not  serious,  and  she  can't  think." 

"She's  young,  my  boy." 

"Yes;  and  she's  had  no  sort  of  show.  Her  mother  died 


I42  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

when  she  was  a  child.  Since  then  she's  lived  with  her  aunt, 
whom  she  can't  bear.  And  her  father  was  a  rake.  She's  had 
no  love." 

"No!  Well,  you  must  make  up  to  her." 

"And  so— you  have  to  forgive  her  a  lot  of  things." 
t     "What  do  you  have  to  forgive  her,  my  boy?" 

"I  dunno.  When  she  seems  shallow,  you  have  to  remember 
she's  never  had  anybody  to  bring  her  deeper  side  out.  And 
she's  fearfully  fond  of  me." 

"Anybody  can  see  that." 

"But  you  know,  mother— she's—she's  different  from  us. 
Those  sort  of  people,  like  those  she  lives  amongst,  they 
don't  seem  to  have  the  same  principles." 

"You  mustn't  judge  too  hastily,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

But  he  seemed  uneasy  within  himself. 

In  the  morning,  however,  he  was  up  singing  and  larking 
round  the  house. 

"Hello!"  he  called,  sitting  on  the  stairs.  "Are  you  getting 
up?" 

"Yes,"  her  voice  called  faintly. 

"iMerry  Christmas!"  he  shouted  to  her. 

Her  laugh,  pretty  and  tinkling,  was  heard  in  the  bedroom. 
She  did  not  come  down  in  half  an  hour. 

"Was  she  really  getting  up  when  she  said  she  was?"  he 
asked  of  Annie. 

"Yes,  she  was,"  replied  Annie. 

He  waited  awhile,  then  went  to  the  stairs  again. 

"Happy  New  Year,"  he  called. 

"Thank  you,  Chubby  dear!"  came  the  laughing  voice,  far 
away. 

"Buck  up!"  he  implored. 

It  was  nearly  an  hour,  and  still  he  was  waiting  for  her. 
Morel,  who  always  rose  before  six,  looked  at  the  clock. 
"Well,  it's  a  winder!"  he  exclaimed. 

The  family  had  breakfasted,  all  but  William.  He  went  to 
the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Shall  I  have  to  send  you  an  Easter  egg  up  there?"  he 
called,  rather  crossly.  She  only  laughed.  The  family  ex- 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 43 

pected,  after  that  time  of  preparation,  something  like  magic. 
At  last  she  came,  looking  very  nice  in  a  blouse  and  skirt. 

"Have  you  really  been  all  this  time  getting  ready?"  he 
asked. 

"Chubby  dear!  That  question  is  not  permitted,  is  it,  Mrs. 
Morel?" 

She  played  the  grand  lady  at  first.  When  she  went  with 
William  to  chapel,  he  in  his  frock  coat  and  silk  hat,  she  iiA 
her  furs  and  London-made  costume,  Paul  and  Arthur  and 
Annie  expected  everybody  to  bow  to  the  ground  in  ad- 
miration. And  Morel,  standing  in  his  Sunday  suit  at  the  end 
of  the  road,  watching  the  gallant  pair  go,  felt  he  was  the 
father  of  princes  and  princesses. 

And  yet  she  was  not  so  grand.  For  a  year  now  she  had 
been  a  sort  of  secretary  or  clerk  in  a  London  office.  But 
while  she  was  with  the  Morels  she  queened  it.  She  sat  and 
let  Annie  or  Paul  wait  on  her  as  if  they  were  her  servants. 
She  treated  Mrs.  Morel  with  a  certain  glibness  and  Morel 
with  patronage.  But  after  a  day  or  so  she  began  to  change 
her  tune. 

William  always  wanted  Paul  or  Annie  to  go  along  with 
them  on  their  walks.  It  was  so  much  more  interesting.  And 
Paul  really  did  admire  "Gipsy"  whole-heartedly;  in  fact, 
his  mother  scarcely  forgave  the  boy  for  the  adulation  with 
which  he  treated  the  girl. 

On  the  second  day,  when  Lily  said,  "Oh,  Annie,  do  you 
know  where  I  left  my  muff?"  William  replied. 

"You  know  it  is  in  your  bedroom.  Why  do  you  ask 
Annie?" 

And  Lily  went  upstairs  with  a  cross,  shut  mouth.  But  it 
angered  the  young  man  that  she  made  a  servant  of  his  sister. 

On  the  third  evening  William  and  Lily  were  sitting  to- 
gether in  the  parlour  by  the  fire  in  the  dark.  At  a  quarter 
to  eleven  Mrs.  Morel  was  heard  raking  the  fire.  William 
came  out  to  the  kitchen,  followed  by  his  beloved. 

"Is  it  as  late  as  that,  mother?"  he  said.  She  had  been  sitting 
alone. 

"It  is  not  late,  my  boy,  but  it  is  as  late  as  I  usually  sit  up/* 


144  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Won't  you  go  to  bed,  then?"  he  asked. 

"And  leave  you  two?  No,  my  boy,  I  don't  believe  in  it." 

"Can't  you  trust  us,  mother?" 

"Whether  I  can  or  not,  I  won't  do  it.  You  can  stay  till 
eleven  if  you  like,  and  I  can  read." 

"Go  to  bed,  Gyp,"  he  said  to  his  girl.  "We  won't  keep 
mater  waiting." 

"Annie  has  left  the  candle  burning,  Lily,"  said  Mrs.  Morel; 
"I  think  you  will  see." 

"Yes,  thank  you.  Good-night,  Mrs.  Morel." 

William  kissed  his  sweetheart  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
and  she  went.  He  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

"Can't  you  trust  us,  mother?"  he  repeated,  rather  of- 
fended. 

"My  boy,  I  tell  you  I  don't  believe  in  leaving  two  young 
things  like  you  alone  downstairs  when  everyone  else  is  in 
bed." 

And  he  was  forced  to  take  this  answer.  He  kissed  his 
mother  good-night. 

At  Easter  he  came  over  alone.  And  then  he  discussed  his 
sweetheart  endlessly  with  his  mother. 

"You  know,  mother,  when  I'm  away  from  her  I  don't 
care  for  her  a  bit.  I  shouldn't  care  if  I  never  saw  her  again. 
But,  then,  when  I'm  with  her  in  the  evenings  I  am  awfully 
fond  of  her." 

"It's  a  queer  sort  of  love  to  marry  on,"  said  Mrs.  Morel, 
"if  she  holds  you  no  more  than  that!" 

"It  is  funny!"  he  exclaimed.  It  worried  and  perplexed  him. 
"But  yet— there's  so  much  between  us  now  I  couldn't  give 
her  up." 

"You  know  best,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "But  if  it  is  as  you  say, 
I  wouldn't  call  it  love— at  any  rate,  it  doesn't  look  much 
like  it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  mother.  She's  an  orphan,  and  " 

They  never  came  to  any  sort  of  conclusion.  He  seemed 
puzzled  and  rather  fretted.  She  was  rather  reserved.  All  his 
strength  and  money  went  in  keeping  this  girl.  He  could 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 45 

scarcely  afford  to  take  his  mother  to  Nottingham  when  he 
came  over. 

Paul's  wages  had  been  raised  at  Christmas  to  ten  shillings, 
to  his  great  joy.  He  was  quite  happy  at  Jordan's,  but  his 
health  suffered  from  the  long  hours  and  the  confinement. 
His  mother,  to  whom  he  became  more  and  more  significant, 
thought  how  to  help. 

His  half-holiday  was  on  Monday  afternoon.  On  a  Mon- 
day morning  in  May,  as  the  two  sat  alone  at  breakfast,  she 
said: 

"I  think  it  will  be  a  fine  day." 

He  looked  up  in  surprise.  This  meant  something. 

"You  know  Mr.  Leivers  has  gone  to  live  on  a  new  farm, 
Well,  he  asked  me  last  week  if  I  wouldn't  go  and  see  Mrs, 
Leivers,  and  I  promised  to  bring  you  on  Monday  if  it's  fine, 
Shall  we  go?" 

"|  say,  little  woman,  how  lovely!"  he  cried.  "And  we'll 
go  this  afternoon?" 

Paul  hurried  off  to  the  station  jubilant.  Down  Derby  Road 
was  a  cherry-tree  that  glistened.  The  old  brick  wall  by  the 
Statutes  ground  burned  scarlet,  spring  was  a  very  flame  of 
green.  And  the  steep  swoop  of  high  road  lay,  in  its  cool 
morning  dust,  splendid  with  patterns  of  sunshine  and 
shadow,  perfectly  still.  The  trees  sloped  their  great  green 
shoulders  proudly;  and  inside  the  warehouse  all  the  morning, 
the  boy  had  a  vision  of  spring  outside. 

When  he  came  home  at  dinner-time  his  mother  was  rathet 
excited. 

"Are  we  going?"  he  asked. 

"When  I'm  ready,"  she  replied. 

Presently  he  got  up. 

"Go  and  get  dressed  while  I  wash  up,"  he  said. 

She  did  so.  He  washed  the  pots,  straightened,  and  then 
took  her  boots.  They  were  quite  clean.  Mrs.  Morel  was  one 
of  those  naturally  exquisite  people  who  can  walk  in  mud 
without  dirtying  their  shoes.  But  Paul  had  to  clean  them  for 
her.  They  were  kid  boots  at  eight  shillings  a  pair.  He,  how- 


146  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

ever,  thought  them  the  most  dainty  boots  in  the  world,  and 
he  cleaned  them  with  as  much  reverence  as  if  they  had  been 
flowers. 

Suddenly  she  appeared  in  the  inner  doorway  rather  shyly. 
She  had  got  a  new  cotton  blouse  on.  Paul  jumped  up  and 
went  forward. 

"Oh,  my  stars!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  a  bobby-dazzler!" 
She  sniffed  in  a  little  haughty  way,  and  put  her  head  up. 
"It's  not  a  bobby-dazzler  at  all!"  she  replied.  "It's  very 
quiet!" 

She  walked  forward,  whilst  he  hovered  round  her. 

"Well,"  she  asked,  quite  shy,  but  pretending  to  be  high 
and  mighty,  "do  you  like  it?" 

"Awfully!  You  are  a  fine  little  woman  to  go  jaunting 
out  with!" 

He  went  and  surveyed  her  from  the  back. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  I  was  walking  down  the  street  behind 
you,  I  should  say,  'Doesn't  that  little  person  fancy  herself!'  " 

"Well,  she  doesn't,"  replied  Mrs.  Morel.  "She's  not  sure 
it  suits  her." 

"Oh  no!  she  wants  to  be  in  dirty  black,  looking  as  if  she 
was  wrapped  in  burnt  paper.  It  does  suit  you,  and  /  say  you 
look  nice." 

She  sniffed  in  her  little  way,  pleased,  but  pretending  to 
know  better. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "it's  cost  me  just  three  shillings.  You 
couldn't  have  got  it  ready-made  for  that  price,  could  you?" 
"I  should  think  you  couldn't,"  he  replied. 
"And,  you  know,  it's  good  stuff." 
"Awfully  pretty,"  he  said. 

The  blouse  was  white,  with  a  little  sprig  of  heliotrope  and 
black. 

"Too  young  for  me,  though,  I'm  afraid,"  she  said. 

"Too  young  for  you!"  he  exclaimed  in  disgust.  "Why 
don't  you  buy  some  false  white  hair  and  stick  it  on  you* 
head?" 

"I  s'll  soon  have  no  need,"  she  replied.  "I'm  going  white 
fast  enough." 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 47 

"Well,  you've  no  business  to,"  he  said.  "What  do  I  want 
with  a  white-haired  mother?" 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  put  up  with  one,  my  lad,"  she 
said  rather  strangely. 

They  .set  off  in  great  style,  she  carrying  the  umbrella 
William  had  given  her,  because  of  the  sun.  Paul  was  consid- 
erably taller  than  she,  though  he  was  not  big.  He  fancied 
himself. 

On  the  fallow  land  the  young  wheat  shone  silkily.  Minton 
pit  waved  its  plumes  of  white  steam,  coughed,  and  rattled 
hoarsely. 

"Now  look  at  that!"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  Mother  and  son 
stood  on  the  road  to  watch.  Along  the  ridge  of  the  great 
pit-hill  crawled  a  little  group  in  silhouette  against  the  sky, 
a  horse,  a  small  truck,  and  a  man.  They  climbed  the  incline 
against  the  heavens.  At  the  end  the  man  tipped  the  waggon, 
There  was  an  undue  rattle  as  the  waste  fell  down  the  sheer 
slope  of  the  enormous  bank. 

"You  sit  a  minute,  mother,"  he  said,  and  she  took  a  seat 
on  a  bank,  whilst  he  sketched  rapidly.  She  was  silent  whilst 
he  worked,  looking  round  at  the  afternoon,  the  red  cottages 
shining  among  their  greenness. 

"The  world  is  a  wonderful  place,"  she  said,  "and  wonder- 
fully beautiful." 

"And  so's  the  pit,"  he  said.  "Look  how  it  heaps  together, 
like  something  alive  almost— a  big  creature  that  you  don't 
know." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Perhaps!" 

"And  all  the  trucks  standing  waiting,  like  a  string  of  beasts 
to  be  fed,"  he  said. 

"And  very  thankful  I  am  they  are  standing,"  she  said,  "for 
that  means  they'll  turn  middling  time  this  week." 

"But  I  like  the  feel  of  men  on  things,  while  they're  alive. 
There's  a  feel  of  men  about  trucks,  because  they've  been 
handled  with  men's  hands,  all  of  them," 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

They  went  along  under  the  trees  of  the  highroad.  He  was 
constantly  informing  hex;  but  she  was  interested.  They 


I48  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

passed  the  end  of  Nethermere,  that  was  tossing  its  sunshine 
like  petals  lightly  in  its  lap.  Then  they  turned  on  a  private 
road,  and  in  some  trepidation  approached  a  big  farm.  A 
do£  barked  furiously.  A  woman  came  out  to  see. 

"Is  this  the  way  to  Willey  Farm?"  Mrs.  Morel  asked. 

Paul  hung  behind  in  terror  of  being  sent  back.  But  the 
woman  was  amiable,  and  directed  them.  The  mother  and  son 
went  through  the  wheat  and  oats,  over  a  little  bridge  into  a 
wild  meadow.  Peewits,  with  their  white  breasts  glistening, 
wheeled  and  screamed  about  them.  The  lake  was  still  and 
blue.  High  overhead  a  heron  floated.  Opposite,  the  wood 
heaped  on  the  hill,  green  and  still. 

"It's  a  wild  road,  mother,"  said  Paul.  "Just  like  Canada." 

"Isn't  it  beautiful!"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  looking  round. 

"See  that  heron— see— see  her  legs?" 

He  directed  his  mother,  what  she  must  see  and  what  not. 
And  she  was  quite  content. 

"But  now,"  she  said,  "which  way?  He  told  me  through 
the  wood." 

The  wood,  fenced  and  dark,  lay  on  their  left. 

"I  can  feel  a  bit  of  a  path  this  road,"  said  Paul.  "You've 
got  town  feet,  somehow  or  other,  you  have." 

They  found  a  little  gate,  and  soon  were  in  a  broad  green 
alley  of  the  wood,  with  a  new  thicket  of  fir  and  pine  on  one 
hand,  an  old  oak  glade  dipping  down  on  the  other.  And 
among  the  oaks  the  bluebells  stood  in  pools  of  azure,  under 
the  new  green  hazels,  upon  a  pale  fawn  floor  of  oak-leaves. 
He  found  flowers  for  her. 

"Here's  a  bit  of  new-mown  hay,"  he  said;  then,  again,  he 
brought  her  forget-me-nots.  And,  again,  his  heart  hurt  with 
love,  seeing  her  hand,  used  with  work,  holding  the  little 
bunch  of  flowers  he  gave  her.  She  was  perfectly  happy. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  riding  was  a  fence  to  climb.  Paul  was 
over  in  a  second. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let  me  help  you." 

"No,  go  away.  I  will  do  it  in  my  own  way." 

He  stood  below  with  his  hands  up  ready  to  help  her.  She 
climbed  cautiously. 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 49 

"What  a  way  to  climb!"  he  exclaimed  scornfully,  when 
she  was  safely  to  earth  again. 
"Hateful  stiles!"  she  cried. 

"Duffer  of  a  little  woman,"  he  replied,  "who  can't  get 
over  'em." 

In  front,  along  the  edge  of  the  wood,  was  a  cluster  of 
low  red  farm  buildings.  The  two  hastened  forward.  Flush 
with  the  wood  was  the  apple  orchard,  where  blossom  was 
falling  on  the  grindstone.  The  pond  was  deep  under  a  hedge 
and  overhanging  oak-trees.  Some  cows  stood  in  the  shade. 
The  farm  and  buildings,  three  sides  of  a  quadrangle, 
embraced  the  sunshine  towards  the  wood.  It  was  very 
still. 

Mother  and  son  went  into  the  small  railed  garden,  where 
was  a  scent  of  red  gillivers.  By  the  open  door  were  some 
floury  loaves,  put  out  to  cool.  A  hen  was  just  coming  to  peck 
them.  Then,  in  the  doorway  suddenly  appeared  a  girl  in  a 
dirty  apron.  She  was  about  fourteen  years  old,  had  a  rosy 
dark  face,  a  bunch  of  short  black  curls,  very  fine  and  free, 
and  dark  eyes;  shy,  questioning,  a  little  resentful  of  the 
strangers,  she  disappeared.  In  a  minute  another  figure  ap- 
peared, a  small,  frail  woman,  rosy,  with  great  dark  brown 
eyes. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  smiling  with  a  little  glow,  "you've 
come,  then.  I  am  glad  to  see  you."  Her  voice  was  intimate 
and  rather  sad. 

The  two  women  shook  hands. 

"Now  are  you  sure  we're  not  a  bother  to  you?"  said  Mrs. 
Morel.  "I  know  what  a  farming  life  is." 

"Oh,  no!  We're  only  too  thankful  to  see  a  new  face,  it's 
so  lost  up  here." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

They  were  taken  through  into  the  parlour— a  long,  low 
room,  with  a  great  bunch  of  guelder-roses  in  the  fire-place. 
There  the  women  talked,  whilst  Paul  went  out  to  survey  the 
land.  He  was  in  the  garden  smelling  the  gillivers  and  looking 
at  the  plants,  when  the  girl  came  out  quickly  to  the  heap  of 
coal  which  stood  by  the  fence. 


150  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"I  suppose  these  are  cabbage-roses?"  he  said  to  her,  point- 
ing to  the  bushes  along  the  fence. 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled,  big  brown  eyes. 

"I  suppose  they  are  cabbage-roses  when  they  come  out?" 
he  said. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  faltered.  "They're  white  with  pink 
middles." 

"Then  they're  maiden-blush." 

Miriam  flushed.  She  had  a  beautiful  warm  colouring. 
"I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  have  much  in  your  garden,"  he  said. 

"This  is  our  first  year  here,"  she  answered,  in  a  distant, 
rather  superior  way,  drawing  back  and  going  indoors.  He 
did  not  notice,  but  went  his  round  of  exploration.  Presently 
his  mother  came  out,  and  they  went  through  the  buildings. 
Paul  was  hugely  delighted. 

"And  I  suppose  you  have  the  fowls  and  calves  and  pigs 
to  look  after?"  said  Mrs.  Morel  to  Mrs.  Leivers. 

"No,"  replied  the  little  woman.  "I  can't  find  time  to  look 
after  cattle,  and  I'm  not  used  to  it.  It's  as  much  as  I  can  do 
to  keep  going  in  the  house." 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

Presently  the  girl  came  out. 

"Tea  is  ready,  mother,"  she  said  in  a  musical,  quiet  voice. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Miriam,  then  we'll  come,"  replied  her 
mother,  almost  ingratiatingly.  "Would  you  care  to  have 
tea  now,  Mrs.  Morel?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "Whenever  it's  ready." 

Paul  and  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Leivers  had  tea  together. 
Then  they  went  out  into  the  wood  that  was  flooded  with 
bluebells,  while  fumy  forget-me-nots  were  in  the  paths.  The 
mother  and  son  were  in  ecstasy  together. 

When  they  got  back  to  the  house,  Mr.  Leivers  and  Edgar* 
the  eldest  son,  were  in  the  kitchen.  Edgar  was  about  eighteen. 
Then  Geoffrey  and  Maurice,  big  lads  of  twelve  and  thirteen, 
were  in  from  school.  Mr.  Leivers  was  a  good-looking  man 
in  the  prime  of  life,  with  a  golden-brown  moustache,  and 
blue  eyes  screwed  up  against  the  weather. 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  I'jl 

The  boys  were  condescending,  but  Paul  scarcely  observed 
it.  They  went  round  for  eggs,  scrambling  into  all  sorts  of 
places.  As  they  were  feeding  the  fowls  Miriam  came  out. 
The  boys  took  no  notice  of  her.  One  hen,  with  her  yellow 
chickens,  was  in  a  coop.  Maurice  took  his  hand  full  of  corn 
and  let  the  hen  peck  from  it. 

"Durst  you  do  it?"  he  asked  of  Paul. 

"Let's  see,"  said  Paul. 

He  had  a  small  hand,  warm,  and  rather  capable-looking, 
Miriam  watched.  He  held  the  corn  to  the  hen.  The  bird 
eyed  it  with  her  hard,  bright  eye,  and  suddenly  made  a 
peck  into  his  hand.  He  started,  and  laughed.  "Rap,  rap,  rap!" 
went  the  bird's  beak  in  his  palm.  He  laughed  again,  and  the 
other  boys  joined. 

"She  knocks  you,  and  nips  you,  but  she  never  hurts," 
said  Paul,  when  the  last  corn  had  gone. 

"Now,  Miriam,"  said  Maurice,  "you  come  an'  'ave  a  go. ' 

"No,"  she  cried,  shrinking  back. 

"Ha!  baby.  The  mardy-kid!"  said  her  brothers. 

"It  doesn't  hurt  a  bit,"  said  Paul.  "It  only  just  nips  rather 
nicely." 

"No,"  she  still  cried,  shaking  her  black  curls  and  shrinking. 

"She  durstn't,"  said  Geoffrey.  "She  niver  durst  do  any" 
thing  except  recite  poitry." 

"Dursn't  jump  off  a  gate,  dursn't  tweedle,  dursn't  go  on 
a  slide,  dursn't  stop  a  girl  hittin'  her.  She  can  do  nowt  but 
go  about  thinkin'  herself  somebody.  'The  Lady  of  the 
Lake.'  Yah!"  cried  Maurice. 

Miriam  was  crimson  with  shame  and  misery. 

"I  dare  do  more  than  you,"  she  cried.  "You're  never  any- 
thing but  cowards  and  bullies." 

"Oh,  cowards  and  bullies!"  they  repeated,  mincingly 
mocking  her  speech. 

"Not  such  a  clown  shall  anger  me, 
A  boor  is  answered  silently" 

he  quoted  against  her,  shouting  with  laughter. 

She  went  indoors.  Paul  went  with  the  boys  into  the 


152  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

orchard,  where  they  had  rigged  up  a  parallel  bar.  They 
did  feats  of  strength.  He  was  more  agile  than  strong,  but 
it  served.  He  fingered  a  piece  of  apple-blossom  that  hung 
low  on  a  swinging  bough. 

"I  wouldn't  get  the  apple-blossom,"  said  Edgar,  the  eldest 
brother.  "There'll  be  no  apples  next  year." 

"I  wasn't  going  to  get  it,"  replied  Paul,  going  away. 

The  boys  felt  hostile  to  him;  they  were  more  interested 
in  their  own  pursuits.  He  wandered  back  to  the  house  to 
look  for  his  mother.  As  he  went  round  the  back,  he  saw 
Miriam  kneeling  in  front  of  the  hen-coop,  some  maize  in 
her  hand,  biting  her  lip,  and  crouching  in  an  intense  atti- 
tude. The  hen  was  eyeing  her  wickedly.  Very  gingerly  she 
put  forward  her  hand.  The  hen  bobbed  for  her.  She  drew 
back  quickly  with  a  cry,  half  of  fear,  half  of  chagrin. 

"It  won't  hurt  you,"  said  Paul. 

She  flushed  crimson  and  started  up. 

"I  only  wanted  to  try,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"See,  it  doesn't  hurt,"  he  said,  and,  putting  only  two 
corns  in  his  palm,  he  let  the  hen  peck,  peck,  peck  at  his 
bare  hand.  "It  only  makes  you  laugh,"  he  said. 

She  put  her  hand  forward,  and  dragged  it  away,  tried 
again,  and  started  back  with  a  cry.  He  frowned. 

"Why,  I'd  let  her  take  corn  from  my  face,"  said  Paul, 
"only  she  bumps  a  bit.  She's  ever  so  neat.  If  she  wasn't,  look 
how  much  ground  she'd  peck  up  every  day." 

He  waited  grimly,  and  watched.  At  last  Miriam  let  the 
bird  peck  from  her  hand.  She  gave  a  little  cry— fear,  and  pain 
because  of  fear— rather  pathetic.  But  she  had  done  it,  and 
she  did  it  again. 

"There,  you  see,"  said  the  boy.  "It  doesn't  hurt,  does  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  dilated  dark  eyes. 

"No,"  she  laughed,  trembling. 

Then  she  rose  and  went  indoors.  She  seemed  to  be  in 
■;ome  way  resentful  of  the  boy. 

"He  thinks  I'm  only  a  common  girl,"  she  thought,  and  she 
wanted  to  prove  she  was  a  grand  person  like  the  "Lady  of 
the  Lake." 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 5  > 

Paul  found  his  mother  ready  to  go  home.  She  smiled  on 
her  son.  He  took  the  great  bunch  of  flowers.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Leivers  walked  down  the  fields  with  them.  The  hills  were 
golden  with  evening;  deep  in  the  wood  showed  the  darken- 
ing purple  of  bluebells.  It  was  everywhere  perfectly  still, 
save  for  the  rustling  of  leaves  and  birds. 

"But  it  is  a  beautiful  place,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Leivers;  "it's  a  nice  little  place,  if 
only  it  weren't  for  the  rabbits.  The  pasture's  bitten  down 
to  nothing.  I  dunno  if  ever  I  s'll  get  the  rent  cfff  it." 

He  clapped  his  hands,  and  the  field  broke  into  motion 
near  the  woods,  brown  rabbits  hopping  everywhere. 

"Would  you  believe  it!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morel. 

She  and  Paul  went  on  alone  together. 

"Wasn't  it  lovely,  mother?"  he  said  quietly. 

A  thin  moon  was  coming  out.  His  heart  was  full  of  happi- 
ness till  it  hurt.  His  mother  had  to  chatter,  because  she,  toor 
wanted  to  cry  with  happiness. 

"Now  wouldn't  I  help  that  man!"  she  said.  "Wouldn't  I 
see  to  the  fowls  and  the  young  stock!  And  Yd  learn  to  milk, 
and  Yd  talk  with  him,  and  Yd  plan  with  him.  My  word,  if  I 
were  his  wife,  the  farm  would  be  run,  I  know!  But  there, 
she  hasn't  the  strength— she  simply  hasn't  the  strength.  She 
ought  never  to  have  been  burdened  like  it,  you  know.  I'm 
sorry  for  her,  and  I'm  sorry  for  him  too.  My  word,  if  Yd 
had  him,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  him  a  bad  husband!  Not 
that  she  does  either;  and  she's  very  lovable." 

William  came  home  again  with  his  sweetheart  at  the 
Whitsuntide.  He  had  one  week  of  his  holidays  then.  It  was* 
beautiful  weather.  As  a  rule,  William  and  Lily  and  Paul 
went  out  in  the  morning  together  for  a  walk.  William  did 
not  talk  to  his  beloved  much,  except  to  tell  her  things  from 
his  boyhood.  Paul  talked  endlessly  to  both  of  them.  They 
lay  down,  all  three,  in  a  meadow  by  Minton  Church.  On 
one  side,  by  the  Castle  Farm,  was  a  beautiful  quivering 
screen  of  poplars.  Hawthorn  was  dropping  from  the  hedges; 
penny  daisies  and  ragged  robin  were  in  the  field,  like 
laughter.  William,  a  big  fellow  of  twenty-three,  thinner  now 


154  S0NS  AND  LOVERS 

and  even  a  bit  gaunt,  lay  back  in  the  sunshine  and  dreamed, 
while  she  fingered  with  his  hair.  Paul  went  gathering  the  big 
daisies.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat;  her  hair  was  black  as  a 
horse's  mane.  Paul  came  back  and  threaded  daisies  in  her  jet- 
black  hair— big  spangles  of  white  and  yellow,  and  just  a  pink 
touch  of  ragged  robin. 

"Now  you  look  like  a  young  witch-woman,"  the  boy  said 
to  her.  "Doesn't  she,  William?" 

Lily  laughed.  William  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her. 
In  his  gaze  was  a  certain  baffled  look  of  misery  and  fierce 
appreciation. 

"Has  he  made  a  sight  of  me?"  she  asked,  laughing  down 
on  her  lover. 

"That  he  has!"  said  William,  smiling. 

He  looked  at  her.  Her  beauty  seemed  to  hurt  him.  He 
glanced  at  her  flower-decked  head  and  frowned. 

"You  look  nice  enough,  if  that's  what  you  want  to  know," 
he  said. 

And  she  walked  without  her  hat.  In  a  little  while  William 
recovered,  and  was  rather  tender  to  her.  Coming  to  a  bridge, 
he  carved  her  initials  and  his  in  a  heart. 


She  watched  his  strong,  nervous  hand,  with  its  glistening 
hairs  and  freckles,  as  he  carved,  and  she  seemed  fascinated 
by  it. 

All  the  time  there  was  a  feeling  of  sadness  and  warmth, 
and  a  certain  tenderness  in  the  house,  whilst  William  and 
Lily  were  at  home.  But  often  he  got  irritable.  She  had 
brought,  for  an  eight-days'  stay,  five  dresses  and  six  blouses. 

"Oh,  would  you  mind,"  she  said  to  Annie,  "washing  me 
these  two  blouses,  and  these  things?" 

And  Annie  stood  washing  when  William  and  Lily  went 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 55 

out  the  next  morning.  Mrs.  Morel  was  furious.  And  some- 
times the  young  man,  catching  a  glimpse  of  his  sweetheart's 
attitude  towards  his  sister,  hated  her. 

On  Sunday  morning  she  looked  very  beautiful  in  a  dress 
of  foulard,  silky  and  sweeping,  and  blue  as  a  jay-bird's 
feather,  and  in  a  large  cream  hat  covered  with  many  roses, 
mostly  crimson.  Nobody  could  admire  her  enough.  But 
in  the  evening,  when  she  was  going  out,  she  asked  again: 

"Chubby,  have  you  got  my  gloves?" 

"Which?"  asked  William. 

"My  new  black  suede." 

"No." 

There  was  a  hunt.  She  had  lost  them. 

"Look  here,  mother,"  said  William,  "that's  the  fourth 
pair  she's  lost  since  Christmas— at  five  shillings  a  pair!" 

"You  only  gave  me  two  of  them,"  she  remonstrated. 

And  in  the  evening,  after  supper,  he  stood  on  the  hearth- 
rug whilst  she  sat  on  the  sofa,  and  he  seemed  to  hate  her. 
In  the  afternoon  he  had  left  her  whilst  he  went  to  see  some 
old  friend.  She  had  sat  looking  at  a  book.  After  supper 
William  wanted  to  write  a  letter. 

"Here  is  your  book,  Lily,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "Would  you 
care  to  go  on  with  it  for  a  few  minutes?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  the  girl.  "I  will  sit  still." 

"But  it  is  so  dull." 

William  scribbled  irritably  at  a  great  rate.  As  he  sealed 
the  envelope  he  said: 

"Read  a  book!  Why,  she's  never  read  a  book  in  her  life!'* 
"Oh,  go  along!"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  cross  with  the  exag- 
geration. 

"It's  true,  mother— she  hasn't,"  he  cried,  jumping  up  and 
taking  his  old  position  on  the  hearthrug.  "She's  never  read 
a  book  in  her  life." 

"  'Er's  like  me,"  chimed  in  Morel.  "  'Er  canna  see  what 
there  is  i'  books,  ter  sit  borin'  your  nose  in  'em  for,  nor  more 
can  I." 

"But  you  shouldn't  say  these  things,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  to 
her  son. 


\$6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

uBut  it's  true,  mother— she  canH  read.  What  did  you  give 
\er?" 

"Well,  I  gave  her  a  little  thing  of  Annie  Swan's.  Nobody 
V^ants  to  read  dry  stuff  on  Sunday  afternoon." 

"Well,  I'll  bet  she  didn't  read  ten  lines  of  it." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  his  mother. 

All  the  time  Lily  sat  miserably  on  the  sofa.  He  turned 
to  her  swiftly. 

"Did  you  read  any?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  she  replied. 

"How  much?" 

"I  don't  know  how  many  pages." 
"Tell  me  one  thing  you  read." 
She  could  not. 

She  never  got  beyond  the  second  page.  He  read  a  great 
deal,  and  had  a  quick,  active  intelligence.  She  could  under- 
stand nothing  but  love-making  and  chatter.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  having  all  his  thoughts  sifted  through  his  mother's 
mind;  so,  when  he  wanted  companionship,  and  was  asked  in 
reply  to  be  the  billing  and  twittering  lover,  he  hated  his 
betrothed. 

"You  know,  mother,"  he  said,  when  he  was  alone  with 
her  at  night,  "she's  no  idea  of  money,  she's  so  wessel-brained. 
When  she's  paid,  she'll  suddenly  buy  such  rot  as  marrons 
glaces,  and  then  /  have  to  buy  her  season-ticket,  and  her 
extras,  even  her  underclothing.  And  she  wants  to  get  mar- 
ked, and  I  think  myself  we  might  as  well  get  married  next 
rear.  But  at  this  rate  " 

"A  fine  mess  of  a  marriage  it  would  be,"  replied  his 
inother.  "I  should  consider  it  again,  my  boy." 

"Oh,  well,  I've  gone  too  far  to  break  off  now,"  he  said, 
"and  so  I  shall  get  married  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"Very  well,  my  boy.  If  you  will,  you  will,  and  there's 
no  stopping  you;  but  I  tell  you,  /  can't  sleep  when  I  think 
about  it." 

"Oh,  she'll  be  all  right,  mother.  We  shall  manage." 
"And  she  lets  you  buy  her  underclothing?"  asked  the 
mother. 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 57 

"Well,"  he  began  apologetically,  "she  didn't  ask  me;  but 
one  morning— and  it  was  cold— I  found  her  on  the  station 
shivering,  not  able  to  keep  still;  so  I  asked  her  if  she  was 
well  wrapped  up.  She  said:  'I  think  so.'  So  I  said:  'Have 
you  got  warm  underthings  on?'  And  she  said:  'No,  they  are 
cotton.'  I  asked  her  why  on  earth  she  hadn't  got  something 
thicker  on  in  weather  like  that,  and  she  said  because  she 
had  nothing.  And  there  she  is— a  bronchial  subject!  I  had 
to  take  her  and  get  some  warm  things.  Well,  mother,  I 
shouldn't  mind  the  money  if  we  had  any.  And,  you  know, 
she  ought  to  keep  enough  to  pay  for  her  season-ticket;  but 
no,  she  comes  to  me  about  that,  and  I  have  to  find  the 
money." 

"It's  a  poor  lookout,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  bitterly. 

He  was  pale,  and  his  rugged  face,  that  used  to  be  so 
perfectly  careless  and  laughing,  was  stamped  with  conflict 
and  despair. 

"But  I  can't  give  her  up  now;  it's  gone  too  far,"  he  said. 
"And,  besides,  for  some  things  I  couldn't  do  without  her." 

"My  boy,  remember  you're  taking  your  life  in  your 
hands,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "Nothing  is  as  bad  as  a  marriage 
that's  a  hopeless  failure.  Mine  was  bad  enough,  God  knows, 
and  ought  to  teach  you  something;  but  it  might  have  been 
worse  by  a  long  chalk." 

He  leaned  with  his  back  against  the  side  of  the  chimney- 
piece,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  was  a  big,  raw-bonec* 
man,  who  looked  as  if  he  would  go  to  the  world's  end  if  he 
wanted  to.  But  she  saw  the  despair  on  his  face. 

"I  couldn't  give  her  up  now,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "remember  there  are  worse  wrongs 
than  breaking  off  an  engagement." 

"I  can't  give  her  up  now"  he  said. 

The  clock  ticked  on;  mother  and  son  remained  in  silence, 
a  conflict  between  them;  but  he  would  say  no  more.  At  last 
she  said: 

"Well,  go  to  bed,  my  son.  You'll  feel  better  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  perhaps  you'll  know  better." 

He  kissed  her,  and  went.  She  raked  the  fire.  Her. heart 


IjS  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

was  heavy  now  as  it  had  never  been.  Before,  with  her  hus- 
band, things  had  seemed  to  be  breaking  down  in  her,  but 
they  did  not  destroy  her  power  to  live.  Now  her  soul  felt 
lamed  in  itself.  It  was  her  hope  that  was  struck. 

And  so  often  William  manifested  the  same  hatred  towards 
his  betrothed.  On  the  last  evening  at  home  he  was  railing 
against  her. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  you  don't  believe  me,  what  she's  like, 
Ivould  you  believe  she  has  been  confirmed  three  times?" 
"Nonsense!"  laughed  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Nonsense  or  not,  she  has\  That's  what  confirmation 
means  for  her— a  bit  of  a  theatrical  show  where  she  can  cut 
a  figure." 

"I  haven't,  Mrs.  Morel!"  cried  the  girl— "I  haven't!  it  is 
not  true!" 

"What!"  he  cried,  flashing  round  on  her.  "Once  in 
Bromley,  once  in  Beckenham,  and  once  somewhere  else." 
"Nowhere  else!"  she  said,  in  tears— "nowhere  else!" 
"It  ivas\  And  if  it  wasn't,  why  were  you  confirmed 

twice?" 

"Once  I  was  only  fourteen,  Mrs.  Morel,"  she  pleaded, 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morel;  "I  can  quite  understand  it,  child. 
Take  no  notice  of  him.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  William, 
saying  such  things." 

"But  it's  true.  She's  religious— she  has  blue  velvet  Prayer- 
Books— and  she's  not  as  much  religion,  or  anything  else,  in 
her  than  that  table-leg.  Gets  confirmed  three  times  for  show, 
to  show  herself  off,  and  that's  how  she  is  in  everything— 
everything!" 

The  girl  sat  on  the  sofa,  crying.  She  was  not  strong. 

"As  for  loveV  he  cried,  "you  might  as  well  as  a  fly  to 
love  you!  It'll  love  settling  on  you  " 

"Now,  say  no  more,"  commanded  Mrs.  Morel.  "If  you 
want  to  say  these  things,  you  must  find  another  place  than 
this.  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  William!  Why  don't  you  be  more 
manly?  To  do  nothing  but  find  fault  with  a  girl,  and  then 
pretend  you're  engaged  to  her!" 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 59 

Mrs.  Morel  subsided  in  wrath  and  indignation. 

William  was  silent,  and  later  he  repented,  kissed  and  com- 
forted the  girl.  Yet  it  was  true,  what  he  had  said.  He  hated 
her. 

When  they  were  going  away,  Mrs.  Morel  accompanied 
them  as  far  as  Nottingham.  It  was  a  long  way  to  Keston 
station. 

"You  know,  mother,"  he  said  to  her,  "Gyp's  shallow. 
Nothing  goes  deep  with  her." 

"William,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  these  things,"  said 
Mrs.  Morel,  very  uncomfortable  for  the  girl  who  walked 
beside  her. 

"But  it  doesn't,  mother.  She's  very  much  in  love  with  me 
now,  but  if  I  died  she'd  have  forgotten  me  in  three  months." 

Mrs.  Morel  was  afraid.  Her  heart  beat  furiously,  hearing 
the  quiet  bitterness  of  her  son's  last  speech. 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  replied.  "You  dortt  know,  and 
therefore  you've  no  right  to  say  such  a  thing." 

"He's  always  saying  these  things!"  cried  the  girl. 

"In  three  months  after  I  was  buried  you'd  have  somebody 
else,  and  I  should  be  forgotten,"  he  said.  "And  that's  your 
love!" 

Mrs.  Morel  saw  them  into  the  train  in  Nottingham,  then 
she  returned  home. 

"There's  one  comfort,"  she  said  to  Paul— "he'll  never  have 
any  money  to  marry  on,  that  I  am  sure  of.  And  so  she'll  save 
him  that  way." 

So  she  took  cheer.  Matters  were  not  yet  very  desperate. 
She  firmly  believed  William  would  never  marry  his  Gipsy. 
She  waited,  and  she  kept  Paul  near  to  her. 

All  summer  long  William's  letters  had  a  feverish  tone; 
he  seemed  unnatural  and  intense.  Sometimes  he  was  ex- 
aggeratedly jolly,  usually  he  was  flat  and  bitter  in  his  letter. 

"Ay,"  his  mother  said,  "I'm  afraid  he's  ruining  himself 
against  that  creature,  who  isn't  worthy  of  his  love,— no,  no 
more  than  a  rag  doll." 

He  wanted  to  come  home.  The  midsummer  holiday  was 
gone;  it  was  a  long  while  to  Christmas.  He  wrote  in  wild 


i6o 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


excitement,  saying  he  could  come  for  Saturday  and  Sunday 
at  Goose  Fair,  the  first  week  in  October. 

"You  are  not  well,  my  boy,"  said  his  mother,  when  she 
saw  him. 

She  was  almost  in  tears  at  having  him  to  herself  again. 

"No,  I've  not  been  well,"  he  said.  "I've  seemed  to  have  a 
dragging  cold  all  the  last  month,  but  it's  going,  I  think." 

It  was  sunny  October  weather.  He  seemed  wild  with  joy, 
like  a  schoolboy  escaped;  then  again  he  was  silent  and  re- 
served. He  was  more  gaunt  than  ever,  and  there  was  a  hag- 
gard look  in  his  eyes. 

"You  are  doing  too  much,"  said  his  mother  to  him. 

He  was  doing  extra  work,  trying  to  make  some  money 
to  marry  on,  he  said.  He  only  talked  to  his  mother  once  on 
the  Saturday  night;  then  he  was  sad  and  tender  about  his 
beloved. 

"And  yet,  you  know,  mother,  for  all  that,  if  I  died  she'd 
be  broken-hearted  for  two  months,  and  then  she'd  start  to 
forget  me.  You'd  see,  she'd  never  come  home  here  to  look 
at  my  grave,  not  even  once." 

"Why,  William,"  said  his  mother,  "you're  not  going  to 
die,  so  why  talk  about  it?" 

"But  whether  or  not—"  he  replied. 

"And  she  can't  help  it.  She  is  like  that,  and  if  you  choose 
her— well,  you  can't  grumble,"  said  his  mother. 

On  the  Sunday  morning,  as  he  was  putting  his  collar  on: 

"Look,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  holding  up  his  chin,  "what 
a  rash  my  collar's  made  under  my  chin!" 

Just  at  the  junction  of  chin  and  throat  was  a  big  red 
inflammation. 

"It  ought  not  to  do  that,"  said  his  mother.  "Here,  put  a 
bit  of  this  soothing  ointment  on.  You  should  wear  different 
collars." 

He  went  away  on  Sunday  midnight,  seeming  better  and 
fnore  solid  for  his  two  days  at  home. 

On  Tuesday  morning  came  a  telegram  from  London 
that  he  was  ill.  Mrs.  Morel  got  off  her  knees  from  washing 
the  floor,  read  the  telegram,  called  a  neighbour,  went  to  her 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  l6l 

landlady  and  borrowed  a  sovereign,  put  on  her  things,  and 
set  off.  She  hurried  to  Keston,  caught  an  express  for  Lon- 
don in  Nottingham.  She  had  to  wait  in  Nottingham  nearly 
an  hour.  A  small  figure  in  her  black  bonnet,  she  was  anxiously 
asking  the  porters  if  they  knew  how  to  get  to  Elmers  End. 
The  journey  was  three  hours.  She  sat  in  her  corner  in  a  kind 
of  stupor,  never  moving.  At  King's  Cross  still  no  one  could 
tell  her  how  to  get  to  Elmers  End.  Carrying  her  string  bag, 
that  contained  her  nightdress,  comb  and  brush,  she  went 
from  person  to  person.  At  last  they  sent  her  underground  to 
Cannon  Street. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  she  arrived  at  William's  lodging. 
The  blinds  were  not  down. 

"How  is  he?"  she  asked. 

"No  better,"  said  the  landlady. 

She  followed  the  woman  upstairs.  William  lay  on  the  bed, 
with  bloodshot  eyes,  his  face  rather  discoloured.  The  clothes 
were  tossed  about,  there  was  no  fire  in  the  room,  a  glass 
of  milk  stood  on  the  stand  at  his  bedside.  No  one  had  been 
with  him. 

"Why,  my  son! "  said  the  mother  bravely. 

He  did  not  answer.  He  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  see  her. 
Then  he  began  to  say,  in  a  dull  voice,  as  if  repeating  a  letter 
from  dictation:  "Owing  to  a  leakage  in  the  hold  of  this 
vessel,  the  sugar  had  set,  and  become  converted  into  rock. 
It  needed  hacking  - — " 

He  was  quite  unconscious.  It  had  been  his  business  to 
examine  some  such  cargo  of  sugar  in  the  Port  of  London. 

"How  long  has  he  been  like  this?"  the  mother  asked  the 
landlady. 

"He  got  home  at  six  o'clock  on  Monday  morning,  and 
he  seemed  to  sleep  all  day;  then  in  the  night  we  heard  him 
talking,  and  this  morning  he  asked  for  you.  So  I  wired,  and 
we  fetched  the  doctor." 

"Will  you  have  a  fire  made?" 

Mrs.  Morel  tried  to  soothe  her  son,  to  keep  him  still. 
The  doctor  came.  It  was  pneumonia,  and,  he  said,  a 
peculiar  erysipelas,  which  had  started  under  the  chin  where 


1 62  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

the  collar  chafed,  and  was  spreading  over  the  face.  He  hoped 
it  would  not  get  to  the  brain. 

Mrs.  Morel  settled  down  to  nurse.  She  prayed  for  William, 
prayed  that  he  would  recognize  her.  But  the  young  man's 
face  grew  more  discoloured.  In  the  night  she  struggled  with 
him.  He  raved,  and  raved,  and  would  not  come  to  conscious- 
ness. At  two  o'clock,  in  a  dreadful  paroxysm,  he  died. 

Mrs.  Morel  sat  perfectly  still  for  an  hour  in  the  lodging 
bedroom;  then  she  roused  the  household. 

At  six  o'clock,  with  the  aid  of  the  charwoman,  she  laid 
him  out;  then  she  went  round  the  dreary  London  village 
to  the  registrar  and  the  doctor. 

At  nine  o'clock  to  the  cottage  on  Scargill  Street  came 
another  wire: 

"William  died  last  night.  Let  father  come,  bring  money." 

Annie,  Paul,  and  Arthur  were  at  home;  Mr.  Morel  was 
gone  to  work.  The  three  children  said  not  a  word.  Annie 
began  to  whimper  with  fear;  Paul  set  off  for  his  father. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day.  At  Brinsley  pit  the  white  steam 
melted  slowly  in  the  sunshine  of  a  soft  blue  sky;  the  wheels 
of  the  headstocks  twinkled  high  up;  the  screen,  shuffling  its 
coal  into  the  trucks,  made  a  busy  noise. 

"I  want  my  father;  he's  got  to  go  to  London,"  said  the 
boy  to  the  first  man  he  met  on  the  bank. 

"Tha  wants  Walter  Morel?  Go  in  theer  an'  tell  Joe 
Ward." 

Paul  went  into  the  little  top  office. 
"I  want  my  father;  he's  got  to  go  to  London." 
''Thy  feyther?  Is  he  down?  What's  his  name?" 
'Mr.  Morel." 

"What,  Walter?  Is  owt  amiss?" 
"He's  got  to  go  to  London." 

The  man  went  to  the  telephone  and  rang  up  the  bottom 
office. 

"Walter  Morel's  wanted.  Number  42,  Hard.  Summat's 
nmiss;  there's|his  lad  here." 
Then  he  turned  round  to  Paul. 
"He'll  be  up  in  a  few  minutes,"  he  said. 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 63 

Paul  wandered  out  to  the  pit-top.  He  watched  the  chair 
come  up,  with  its  waggon  of  coal.  The  great  iron  cage  sank 
back  on  its  rest,  a  full  carfle  was  hauled  off,  an  empty  tram 
run  on  to  the  chair,  a  bell  ting'ed  somewhere,  the  chair 
heaved,  then  dropped  like  a  stone. 

Paul  did  not  realize  William  was  dead;  it  was  impossible, 
with  such  a  bustle  going  on.  The  puller-off  swung  the  small 
truck  on  to  the  turn-table,  another  man  ran  with  it  along 
the  bank  down  the  curving  lines. 

"And  William  is  dead,  and  my  mother's  in  London,  and 
what  will  she  be  doing?''  the  boy  asked  himself,  as  if  it  were 
a  conundrum. 

He  watched  chair  after  chair  come  up,  and  still  no  father. 
At  last,  standing  beside  a  waggon,  a  man's  form!  The  chair 
sank  on  its  rests,  Morel  stepped  off.  He  was  slightly  lame 
from  an  accident. 

"Is  it  thee,  Paul?  Is  'e  worse?" 

"You've  got  to  go  to  London." 

The  two  walked  off  the  pit-bank,  where  men  were  watch- 
ing curiously.  As  they  came  out  and  went  along  the  railway, 
with  the  sunny  autumn  field  on  one  side  and  a  wall  of  trucks 
on  the  other,  Morel  said  in  a  frightened  voice: 

"  'E's  niver  gone,  child?" 

"Yes." 

"When  wor't?" 

The  miner's  voice  was  terrified. 

"Last  night.  We  had  a  telegram  from  my  mother." 

Morel  walked  on  a  few  strides,  then  leaned  up  against 
a  truck  side,  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  He  was  not  crying. 
Paul  stood  looking  around,  waiting.  On  the  weighing- 
machine  a  truck  trundled  slowly.  Paul  saw  everything,  ex- 
cept his  father  leaning  against  the  truck  as  if  he  were  tired. 

Morel  had  only  once  before  been  to  London.  He  set  off, 
scared  and  peaked,  to  help  his  wife.  That  was  on  Wednes- 
day. The  children  were  left  alone  in  the  house.  Paul  went  to 
work,  Arthur  went  to  school,  and  Annie  had  in  a  friend  to 
be  with  her. 

On  Saturday  ni^ht,  as  Paul  was  turning  the  corner,  com- 


1 64  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

ing  home  from  Keston,  he  saw  his  mother  and  father,  who 
had  come  to  Sethley  Bridge  Station.  They  were  walking  in 
silence  in  the  dark,  tired,  straggling  apart.  The  boy  waited. 
"Mother!"  he  said,  in  the  darkness. 

Mrs.  Morel's  small  figure  seemed  not  to  observe.  He  spoke 
again. 

"Paul!"  she  said,  uninterestedly. 

She  let  him  kiss  her,  but  she  seemed  unaware  of  him. 

In  the  house  she  was  the  same— small,  white,  and  mute. 
She  noticed  nothing,  she  said  nothing,  only: 

"The  coffin  will  be  here  tonight,  Walter.  You'd  better  see 
about  some  help."  Then,  turning  to  the  children:  "We're 
bringing  him  home." 

Then  she  relapsed  into  the  same  mute  looking  into  space, 
her  hands  folded  on  her  lap.  Paul,  looking  at  her,  felt  he 
could  not  breathe.  The  house  was  dead  silent. 

"I  went  to  work,  mother,"  he  said  plaintively. 

"Did  you?"  she  answered  dully. 

After  half  an  hour  Morel,  troubled  and  bewildered,  came 
in  again. 

"Wheer  s'll  we  ha'e  him  when  he  does  come?"  he  asked 
his  wife. 

"In  the  front  room." 

"Then  I'd  better  shift  th'  table?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  ha'e  him  across  th'  chairs?" 

"You  know  there—  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

Morel  and  Paul  went,  with  a  candle,  into  the  parlour. 
There  was  no  gas  there.  The  father  unscrewed  the  top  of 
the  big  mahogany  oval  table,  and  cleared  the  middle  of  the 
room;  then  he  arranged  six  chairs  opposite  each  other,  so 
that  the  coffin  could  stand  on  their  beds. 

"You  niver  seed  such  a  length  as  he  is!"  said  the  miner, 
and  watching  anxiously  as  he  worked. 

Paul  went  to  the  bay  window  and  looked  out.  The  ash- 
tree  stood  monstrous  and  black  in  front  of  the  wide  dark- 
ness. It  was  a  faintly  luminous  night.  Paul  went  back  to  his 
mother. 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 65 

At  ten  o'clock  Morel  called: 
"He's  here!" 

Everyone  started.  There  was  a  noise  of  unbarring  and 
unlocking  the  front  door,  which  opened  straight  from  the 
night  into  the  room. 

"Bring  another  candle,"  called  Morel. 

Annie  and  Arthur  went.  Paul  followed  with  his  mother. 
He  stood  with  his  arm  round  her  waist  in  the  inner  door- 
way. Down  the  middle  of  the  cleared  room  waited  six  chairs, 
face  to  face.  In  the  window,  against  the  lace  curtains,  Arthur 
held  up  one  candle,  and  by  the  open  door,  against  the  night, 
Annie  stood  leaning  forward,  her  brass  candlestick  glit- 
tering. 

There  was  the  noise  of  wheels.  Outside  in  the  darkness  of 
the  street  below  Paul  could  see  horses  and  a  black  vehicle, 
one  lamp,  and  a  few  pale  faces;  then  some  men,  miners,  all 
in  their  shirt-sleeves,  seemed  to  struggle  in  the  obscurity. 
Presently  two  men  appeared,  bowed  beneath  a  great  weight. 
It  was  Morel  and  his  neighbour. 

"Steady!"  called  Morel,  out  of  breath. 

He  and  his  fellow  mounted  the  steep  garden  step,  heaved 
into  the  candle-light  with  their  gleaming  coffin-end.  Limbs 
of  other  men  were  seen  struggling  behind.  Morel  and  Burns, 
in  front,  staggered;  the  great  dark  weight  swayed. 

"Steady,  steady!"  cried  Morel,  as  if  in  pain. 

All  the  six  bearers  were  up  in  the  small  garden,  holding 
the  great  coffin  aloft.  There  were  three  more  steps  to  the 
door.  The  yellow  lamp  of  the  carriage  shone  alone  down 
in  the  black  road. 

"Now  then!"  said  Morel. 

The  coffin  swayed,  the  men  began  to  mount  the  three 
steps  with  their  load.  Annie's  candle  flickered,  and  she 
whimpered  as  the  first  men  appeared,  and  the  limbs  and 
bowed  heads  of  six  men  struggled  to  climb  into  the  room, 
bearing  the  coffin  that  rode  like  sorrow  on  their  living  flesh. 

"Oh,  my  son— my  son!"  Mrs.  Morel  sang  softly,  and  each 
time  the  coffin  swung  to  the  unequal  climbing  of  the  men: 
"Oh,  my  son— my  son— my  son!" 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"Mother!"  Paul  whimpered,  his  hand  round  her  waist. 
"Mother!" 

She  did  not  hear. 

"Oh,  my  son— my  son!"  she  repeated. 

Paul  saw  drops  of  sweat  fall  from  his  father's  brow.  Six 
men  were  in  the  room— six  coatless  men,  with  yielding, 
struggling  limbs,  filling  the  room  and  knocking  against 
the  furniture.  The  coffin  veered,  and  was  gently  lowered 
on  to  the  chairs.  The  sweat  fell  from  Morel's  face  on  its 
boards.  ■ 

"My  word,  he's  a  weight! "  said  a  man,  and  the  five  miners 
sighed,  bowed,  and,  trembling  with  the  struggle,  descended 
the  steps  again,  closing  the  door  behind  them. 

The  family  was  alone  in  the  parlour  with  the  great  polished 
box.  William,  when  laid  out,  was  six  feet  four  inches  long. 
Like  a  monument  lay  the  bright  brown,  ponderous  coffin. 
Paul  thought  it  would  never  be  got  out  of  the  room  again. 
His  mother  was  stroking  the  polished  wood. 

They  buried  him  on  the  Monday  in  the  little  cemetery 
on  the  hillside  that  looks  over  the  fields  at  the  big  church 
and  the  houses.  It  was  sunny,  and  the  white  chrysanthemums 
frilled  themselves  in  the  warmth. 

Mrs.  Morel  could  not  be  persuaded,  after  this,  to  talk 
and  take  her  old  bright  interest  in  life.  She  remained  shut 
off.  All  the  way  home  in  the  train  she  had  said  to  herself:  ( 
"If  only  it  could  have  been  me!" 

When  Paul  came  home  at  night  he  found  his  mother 
sitting,  her  day's  work  done,  with  hands  folded  in  her  lap 
upon  her  coarse  apron.  She  always  used  to  have  changed 
her  dress  and  put  on  a  black  apron,  before.  Now  Annie  set 
his  supper,  and  his  mother  sat  looking  blankly  in  front  of 
her,  her  mouth  shut  tight.  Then  he  beat  his  brains  for  news 
to  tell  her. 

"Mother,  Miss  Jordan  was  down  today,  and  she  said  my 
i '.ketch  of  a  colliery  at  work  was  beautiful." 

But  Mrs.  Morel  took  no  notice.  Night  after  night  he 
forced  himself  to  tell  her  things,  although  she  did  not  listen. 
It  drove  him  almost  insane  to  have  her  thus.  At  last: 


DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY  1 67 

"What's  a-matter,  mother?"  he  asked. 
She  did  not  hear. 

"What's  a-matter?"  he  persisted.  "Mother,  what's 
a-matter?" 

"You  know  what's  the  matter,"  she  said  irritably,  turning 
away. 

The  lad— he  was  sixteen  years  old— went  to  bed  drearily, 
He  was  cut  off  and  wretched  through  October,  November, 
and  December.  His  mother  tried,  but  she  could  not  rouse 
herself.  She  could  only  brood  on  her  dead  son;  he  had  been 
let  to  die  so  cruelly. 

At  last,  on  December  23,  with  his  five  shillings  Christmas- 
box  in  his  pocket,  Paul  wandered  blindly  home.  His  mother 
looked  at  him,  and  her  heart  stood  still. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  badly,  mother!"  he  replied.  "Mr.  Jordan  gave  me 
five  shillings  for  a  Christmas-box!" 

He  handed  it  to  her  with  trembling  hands.  She  put  it  on 
the  table. 

"You  aren't  glad!"  he  reproached  her;  but  he  trembled 
violently. 

"Where  hurts  you?"  she  said,  unbuttoning  his  overcoat. 
It  was  the  old  question. 
"I  feel  badly,  mother." 

She  undressed  him  and  put  him  to  bed.  He  had  pneumonia 
dangerously,  the  doctor  said. 

"Might  he  never  have  had  it  if  I'd  kept  him  at  home,  not 
let  him  go  to  Nottingham?"  was  one  of  the  first  things  she 
asked. 

"He  might  not  have  been  so  bad,"  said  the  doctor. 
Mrs.  Morel  stood  condemned  #on  her  own  ground. 
"I  should  have  watched  the  living,  not  the  dead,"  she  toW 
herself. 

Paul  was  very  ill.  His  mother  lay  in  bed  at  nights  with 
him;  they  could  not  afford  a  nurse.  He  grew  worse,  and  the 
crisis  approached.  One  night  he  tossed  into  consciousness  in 
the  ghastly,  sickly  feeling  of  dissolution,  when  all  the  cells 
in  the  boy  seem  in  intense  irritability  to  be  breaking  down* 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


and  consciousness  makes  a  last  flare  of  struggle,  like  mad- 
ness. 

"I  s'll  die,  mother!"  he  cried,  heaving  for  breath  on  the 
pillow. 

She  lifted  him  up,  crying  in  a  small  voice: 
"Oh,  my  son— my  son!" 

That  brought  him  to.  He  realized  her.  His  whole  will  rose 
up  and  arrested  him.  He  put  his  head  on  her  breast,  and  took 
ease  of  her  for  love. 

"For  some  things,"  said  his  aunt,  "it  was  a  good  thing 
Paul  was  ill  that  Christmas.  I  believe  it  saved  his  mother." 

Paul  was  in  bed  for  seven  weeks.  He  got  up  white  and 
fragile.  His  father  had  bought  him  a  pot  of  scarlet  and  gold 
tulips.  They  used  to  flame  in  the  window  in  the  March  sun- 
shine as  he  sat  on  the  sofa  chattering  to  his  mother.  The  two 
knitted  together  in  perfect  intimacy.  Mrs.  Morel's  life  now 
rooted  itself  in  Paul. 

William  had  been  a  prophet.  Mrs.  Morel  had  a  little 
present  and  a  letter  from  Lily  at  Christmas.  Mrs.  Morel's 
sister  had  a  letter  at  the  New  Year. 

"I  was  at  a  ball  last  night.  Some  delightful  people  were 
there,  and  I  enjoyed  myself  thoroughly,"  said  the  letter.  "I 
had  every  dance— did  not  sit  out  one." 

Mrs.  Morel  never  heard  any  more  of  her. 

Morel  and  his  wife  were  gentle  with  each  other  for  some 
time  after  the  death  of  their  son.  He  would  go  into  a  kind 
of  daze,  staring  wide-eyed  and  blank  across  the  room.  Then 
he  would  get  up  suddenly  and  hurry  out  to  the  Three  Spots, 
returning  in  his  normal  state.  But  never  in  his  life  would  he 
go  for  a  walk  up  Shepstone,  past  the  office  where  his  son 
nad  worked,  and  he  always  avoided  the  cemetery. 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
PART  TWO 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

CHAPTER  VII 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE 


PAUL  had  been  many  times  up  to  Willey  Farm  during 
the  autumn.  He  was  friends  with  the  two  youngest  boys. 
Edgar,  the  eldest,  would  not  condescend  at  first.  And  Miriam 
also  refused  to  be  approached.  She  was  afraid  of  being  set 
at  nought,  as  by  her  own  brothers.  The  girl  was  romantic 
in  her  soul.  Everywhere  was  a  Walter  Scott  heroine  being 
loved  by  men  with  helmets  or  with  plumes  in  their  caps. 
She  herself  was  something  of  a  princess  turned  into  a  swine- 
girl,  in  her  own  imagination.  And  she  was  afraid  lest  this 
boy,  who,  nevertheless,  looked  something  like  a  Walter 
Scott  hero,  who  could  paint  and  speak  French,  and  knew 
what  algebra  meant,  and  who  went  by  train  to  Nottingham 
every  day,  might  consider  her  simply  as  the  swine-girl, 
unable  to  perceive  the  princess  beneath;  so  she  held  aloof. 

Her  great  companion  was  hes  mother.  They  were  both 
brown-eyed,  and  inclined  to  be  mystical,  such  women  as 
treasure  religion  inside  them,  breathe  it  in  their  nostrils, 
and  see  the  whole  of  life  in  a  mist  thereof.  So  to  Miriam, 
Christ  and  God  made  one  great  figure,  which  she  loved 
tremblingly  and  passionately  when  a  tremendous  sunset 
burned  out  the  western  sky,  and  Ediths,  and  Lucys,  and 
Rowenas,  Brian  de  Bois  Guilberts,  Rob  Roys,  and  Guy 
Mannerings,  rustled  the  sunny  leaves  in  the  morning,  or  sat 
in  her  bedroom  aloft,  alone,  when  it  snowed.  That  was  life 
to  her.  For  the  rest,  she  drudged  in  the  house,  which  work 
she  would  not  have  minded  had  not  her  clean  red  floor  been 

169 


I70  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

mucked  up  immediately  by  the  trampling  farm-boots  of 
her  brothers.  She  madly  wanted  her  little  brother  of  four  to 
let  her  swathe  him  and  stifle  him  in  her  love;  she  went  to 
church  reverently,  with  bowed  head,  and  quivered  in 
anguish  from  the  vulgarity  of  the  other  choir-girls  and  from 
the  common-sounding  voice  of  the  curate;  she  fought  with 
her  brothers,  whom  she  considered  brutal  louts;  and  she 
held  not  her  father  in  too  high  esteem  because  he  did  not 
carry  any  mystical  ideals  cherished  in  his  heart,  but  only 
wanted  to  have  as  easy  a  time  as  he  could,  and  his  meals 
when  he  was  ready  for  them. 

She  hated  her  position  as  swine-girl.  She  wanted  to  be 
considered.  She  wanted  to  learn,  thinking  that  if  she  could 
read,  as  Paul  said  he  could  read,  Colomba,  or  the  Voyage 
autour  de  ma  Chambre,  the  world  would  have  a  different 
face  for  her  and  a  deepened  respect.  She  could  not  be 
princess  by  wealth  or  standing.  So  she  was  mad  to  have 
learning  whereon  to  pride  herself.  For  she  was  different 
from  other  folk,  and  must  not  be  scooped  up  among  the 
common  fry.  Learning  was  the  only  distinction  to  which 
she  thought  to  aspire. 

Her  beauty— that  of  a  shy,  wild,  quiveringly  sensitive 
thing— seemed  nothing  to  her.  Even  her  soul,  so  strong  for 
rhapsody,  was  not  enough.  She  must  have  something  to 
reinforce  her  pride,  because  she  felt  different  from  other 
people.  Paul  she  eyed  rather  wistfully.  On  the  whole,  she 
scorned  the  male  sex.  But  here  was  a  new  specimen,  quick, 
light,  graceful,  who  could  be  gentle  and  who  could  be  sad, 
and  who  was  clever,  and  who  knew  a  lot,  and  who  had  a 
death  in  the  family.  The  boy's  poor  morsel  of  learning  ex- 
alted him  almost  sky-high  in  her  esteem.  Yet  she  tried  hard 
to  scorn  him,  because  he  would  not  see  in  her  the  princess 
but  only  the  swine-girl.  And  he  scarcely  observed  her. 

Then  he  was  so  ill,  and  she  felt  he  would  be  weak.  Then 
she  would  be  stronger  than  he.  Then  she  could  love  him.  If 
she  could  be  mistress  of  him  in  his  weakness,  take  care  of 
him,  if  he  could  depend  on  her,  if  she  could,  as  it  were,  have 
him  in  her  arms,  how  she  would  love  him! 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  I7I 

As  soon  as  the  skies  brightened  and  plum-blossom  was 
out,  Paul  drove  off  in  the  milkman's  heavy  float  up  to  Willey 
Farm.  Mr.  Leivers  shouted  in  a  kindly  fashion  at  the  boy, 
then  clicked  to  the  horse  as  they  climbed  the  hill  slowly,  in 
the  freshness  of  the  morning.  White  clouds  went  on  their 
way,  crowding  to  the  back  of  the  hills  that  were  rousing 
in  the  springtime.  The  water  of  Nethermere  lay  below,  very 
blue  against  the  seared  meadows  and  the  thorn-trees. 

It  was  four  and  a  half  miles'  drive.  Tiny  buds  on  the 
hedges,  vivid  as  copper-green,  were  opening  into  rosettes; 
and  thrushes  called,  and  blackbirds  shrieked  and  scolded. 
It  was  a  new,  glamorous  world. 

Miriam,  peeping  through  the  kitchen  window,  saw  the 
horse  walk  through  the  big  white  gate  into  the  farmyard 
that  was  backed  by  the  oak-wood,  still  bare.  Then  a  youth 
in  a  heavy  overcoat  climbed  down.  He  put  up  his  hands  fof 
the  whip  and  the  rug  that  the  good-locking,  ruddy  farmer 
handed  down  to  him. 

Miriam  appeared  in  the  doorway.  She  was  nearly  sixteen, 
very  beautiful,  with  her  warm  colouring,  her  gravity,  her 
eyes  dilating  suddenly  like  an  ecstasy. 

"I  say,"  said  Paul,  turning  shyly  aside,  "your  daffodils  are 
nearly  out.  Isn't  it  early?  But  don't  they  look  cold?" 

"Cold!"  said  Miriam,  in  her  musical,  caressing  voice. 

"The  green  on  their  buds—"  and  he  faltered  into  silence 
timidly. 

"Let  me  take  the  rug,"  said  Miriam  over-gently. 
"I  can  carry  it,"  he  answered,  rather  injured.  But  he 
yielded  it  to  her. 

Then  Mrs.  Leivers  appeared. 

"I'm  sure  you're  tired  and  cold,"  she  said.  "Let  me  take 
your  coat.  It  is  heavy.  You  mustn't  walk  far  in  it." 

She  helped  him  off  with  his  coat.  He  was  quite  unused 
to  such  attention.  She  was  almost  smothered  under  its  weight. 

"Why,  mother,"  laughed  the  farmer  as  he  passed  through 
the  kitchen,  swinging  the  great  milk-churns,  "you've  got  al- 
most more  than  you  can  manage  there." 

She  beat  up  the  sofa  cushions  for  the  youth. 


I72  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

The  kitchen  was  very  small  and  irregular.  The  farm  had 
been  originally  a  labourer's  cottage.  And  the  furniture  was 
old  and  battered.  But  Paul  loved  it— loved  the  sack-bag  that 
formed  the  hearthrug,  and  the  funny  little  corner  under  the 
stairs,  and  the  small  window  deep  in  the  corner,  through 
which,  bending  a  little,  he  could  see  the  plum-trees  in  the 
back-garden  and  the  lovely  round  hills  beyond. 

"Won't  you  lie  down?"  said  Mrs.  Leivers. 

"Oh  no;  I'm  not  tired,"  he  said.  "Isn't  it  lovely  coming 
out,  don't  you  think?  I  saw  a  sloe  bush  in  blossom  and  a  lot 
of  celandines.  I'm  glad  it's  sunny." 

"Can  I  give  you  anything  to  eat  or  to  drink?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

"How's  your  mother?" 

"I  think  she's  tired  now.  I  think  she's  had  too  much  to  do. 
Perhaps  in  a  little  while  she'll  go  to  Skegness  with  me.  Then 
she'll  be  able  to  rest.  I  s'll  be  glad  if  she  can." 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Leivers.  "It's  a  wonder  she  isn't  ill 
herself." 

Miriam  was  moving  about  preparing  dinner.  Paul  watched 
everything  that  happened.  His  face  was  pale  and  thin,  but 
his  eyes  were  quick  and  bright  with  life  as  ever.  He  watched 
the  strange,  almost  rhapsodic  way  in  which  the  girl  moved 
about,  carrying  a  great  stew- jar  to  the  oven,  or  looking  in 
the  saucepan.  The  atmosphere  was  different  from  that  of  his 
own  home,  where  everything  seemed  so  ordinary.  When 
Mr.  Leivers  called  loudly  outside  to  the  horse,  that  was 
reaching  over  to  feed  on  the  rose-bushes  in  the  garden,  the 
girl  started,  looked  round  with  dark  eyes,  as  if  something 
had  come  breaking  in  on  her  world.  There  was  a  sense  of 
silence  inside  the  house  and  out.  Miriam  seemed  as  in  some 
dreamy  tale,  a  maiden  in  bondage,  her  spirit  dreaming  in  a 
land  far  away  and  magical.  And  her  discoloured,  old  blue 
frock  and  her  broken  boots  seemed  only  like  the  romantic 
rags  of  King  Cophetua's  begger-maid. 

She  suddenly  became  aware  of  his  keen  blue  eyes  upon 
her„  taking  her  all  in.  Instantly  her  broken  boots  and  her 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  1 73 

frayed  old  frock  hurt  her.  She  resented  his  seeing  every- 
thing. Even  he  knew  that  her  stocking  was  not  pulled  up. 
She  went  into  the  scullery,  blushing  deeply.  And  afterwards 
her  hands  trembled  slightly  at  her  work.  She  nearly  dropped 
all  she  handled.  When  her  inside  dream  was  shaken,  her 
body  quivered  with  trepidation.  She  resented  that  he  saw 
so  much. 

Mrs.  Leivers  sat  for  some  time  talking  to  the  boy,  although 
she  was  needed  at  her  work.  She  was  too  polite  to  leave  him. 
Presently  she  excused  herself  and  rose.  After  a  while  she 
looked  into  the  tin  saucepan. 

"Oh  dear,  Miriam,"  she  cried,  "these  potatoes  have  boiled 
dry!" 

Miriam  started  as  if  she  had  been  stung. 
"Have  they,  mother?"  she  cried. 

"I  shouldn't  care,  Miriam,"  said  the  mother,  "if  I  hadn't 
trusted  them  to  you."  She  peered  into  the  pan. 

The  girl  stiffened  as  if  from  a  blow.  Her  dark  eyes  dilated; 
she  remained  standing  in  the  same  spot. 

"Well,"  she  answered,  gripped  tight  in  self-conscious 
shame,  "I'm  sure  I  looked  at  them  five  minutes  since." 

"Yes,"  said  the  mother,  "I  know  it's  easily  done." 

"They're  not  much  burned,"  said  Paul.  "It  doesn't  matter, 
does  it?" 

Mrs.  Leivers  looked  at  the  youth  with  her  brown,  hurt 
eyes. 

"It  wouldn't  matter  but  for  the  boys,"  she  said  to  him. 
"Only  Miriam  knows  what  a  trouble  they  make  if  the  pota- 
toes are  'caught.'  " 

"Then,"  thought  Paul  to  himself,  "you  shouldn't  let  them 
make  a  trouble." 

After  a  while  Edgar  came  in.  He  wore  leggings,  and  his 
boots  were  covered  with  earth.  He  was  rather  small,  rather 
formal,  for  a  farmer.  He  glanced  at  Paul,  nodded  to  him 
distantly,  and  said: 

"Dinner  ready?" 

"Nearly,  Edgar,"  replied  the  mother  apologetically. 


174  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

uVm  ready  for  mine,"  said  the  young  man,  taking  up  the 
newspaper  and  reading.  Presently  the  rest  of  the  family 
trooped  in.  Dinner  was  served.  The  meal  went  rather  bru- 
tally. The  over-gentleness  and  apologetic  tone  of  the  mother 
brought  out  all  the  brutality  of  manners  in  the  sons.  Edgar 
tasted  the  potatoes,  moved  his  mouth  quickly  like  a  rabbit, 
looked  indignantly  at  his  mother,  and  said: 

"These  potatoes  are  burnt,  mother.'' 

"Yes,  Edgar.  I  forgot  them  for  a  minute.  Perhaps  you'll 
have  bread  if  you  can't  eat  them." 

Edgar  looked  in  anger  across  at  Miriam. 

"What  was  Miriam  doing  that  she  couldn't  attend  to 
them?"  he  said. 

Miriam  looked  up.  Her  mouth  opened,  her  dark  eyes 
blazed  and  winced,  but  she  said  nothing.  She  swallowed  her 
anger  and  her  shame,  bowing  her  dark  head. 

"I'm  sure  she  was  trying  hard,"  said  the  mother. 

"She  hasn't  got  sense  even  to  boil  the  potatoes,"  said 
Edgar.  "What  is  she  kept  at  home  for?" 

"On'y  for  eating  everything  that's  left  in  th'  pantry,"  said 
Maurice. 

"They  don't  forget  that  potato-pie  against  our  Miriam," 
laughed  the  father.  * 

She  was  utterly  humiliated.  The  mother  sat  in  silence, 
suffering,  like  some  saint  out  of  place  at  the  brutal  board. 

It  puzzled  Paul.  He  wondered  vaguely  why  all  this  intense 
feeling  went  running  because  of  a  few  burnt  potatoes.  The 
mother  exalted  everything— even  a  bit  of  housework— to  the 
plane  of  a  religious  trust.  The  sons  resented  this;  they  felt 
themselves  cut  away  underneath,  and  they  answered  with 
brutality  and  also  with  a  sneering  superciliousness. 

Paul  was  just  opening  out  from  childhood  into  manhood. 
This  atmosphere,  where  everything  took  a  religious  value, 
came  with  a  subtle  fascination  to  him.  There  was  something 
in  the  air.  His  own  mother  was  logical.  Here  there  was  some- 
thing different,  something  he  loved,  something  that  at  times 
he  hated. 

Miriam  quarrelled  with  her  brothers  fiercely.  Later  in  the 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  175 

afternoon,  when  they  had  gone  away  again,  her  mother 
said: 

"You  disappointed  me  at  dinner-time,  Miriam." 
The  girl  dropped  her  head. 

"They  are  such  brutesV  she  suddenly  cried,  looking  up 
with  flashing  eyes. 

"But  hadn't  you  promised  not  to  answer  them?"  said  the 
mother.  "And  I  believed  in  you.  I  can't  stand  it  when  you 
wrangle." 

"But  they're  so  hateful!"  cried  Miriam,  "and— and  louu." 

"Yes,  dear.  But  how  often  have  I  asked  you  not  to  answer 
Edgar  back?  Can't  you  let  him  say  what  he  likes?" 

"But  why  should  he  say  what  he  likes?" 

"Aren't  you  strong  enough  to  bear  it,  Miriam,  if  even 
for  my  sake?  Are  you  so  weak  that  you  must  wrangle  with 
them?" 

Mrs.  Lei  vers  stuck  unflinchingly  to  this  doctrine  of  "the 
other  cheek."  She  could  not  instil  it  at  all  into  the  boys. 
With  the  girls  she  succeeded  better,  and  Miriam  was  the 
child  of  her  heart.  The  boys  loathed  the  other  cheek  when 
it  was  presented  to  them.  Miriam  was  often  sufficiently  lofty 
to  turn  it.  Then  they  spat  on  her  and  hated  her.  But  she 
walked  in  her  proud  humility,  living  within  herself. 

There  was  always  this  feeling  of  jangle  and  discord  in 
the  Leivers  family.  Although  the  boys  resented  so  bitterly 
this  eternal  appeal  to  their  deeper  feelings  of  resignation 
and  proud  humility,  yet  it  had  its  effect  on  them.  They 
could  not  establish  between  themselves  and  an  outsider  just 
the  ordinary  human  feeling  and  unexaggerated  friendship; 
they  were  always  restless  for  the  something  deeper.  Or- 
dinary folk  seemed  shallow  to  them,  trivial  and  inconsider- 
able. And  so  they  were  unaccustomed,  painfully  uncouth  in 
the  simplest  social  intercourse,  suffering,  and  yet  insolent  in 
their  superiority.  Then  beneath  was  the  yearning  for  the 
soul-intimacy  to  which  they  could  not  attain  because  they 
were  too  dumb,  and  every  approach  to  close  connexion  was 
blocked  by  their  clumsy  contempt  of  other  people.  They 
wanted  genuine  intimacy,  but  they  could  not  get  even 


V/6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

normally  near  to  anyone,  because  they  scorned  to  take  the 
first  steps,  they  scorned  the  triviality  which  forms  common 
human  intercourse. 

Paul  fell  under  Mrs.  Leivers'  spell.  Everything  had  a  re- 
ligious and  intensified  meaning  when  he  was  with  her.  His 
soul,  hurt,  highly  developed,  sought  her  as  if  for  nourish- 
ment. Together  they  seemed  to  sift  the  vital  fact  from  an 
experience. 

Miriam  was  her  mother's  daughter.  In  the  sunshine  of  the 
afternoon  mother  and  daughter  went  down  the  fields  with 
him.  They  looked  for  nests.  There  was  a  jenny  wren's  in 
the  hedge  by  the  orchard. 

"I  do  want  you  to  see  this,"  said  Mrs.  Leivers. 

He  crouched  down  and  carefully  put  his  finger  through 
the  thorns  into  the  round  door  of  the  nest. 

"It's  almost  as  if  you  were  feeling  inside  the  live  body  of 
the  bird,"  he  said,  "it's  so  warm.  They  say  a  bird  makes  its 
nest  round  like  a  cup  with  pressing  its  breast  on  it.  Then 
how  did  it  make  the  ceiling  round,  I  wonder?" 

The  nest  seemed  to  start  into  life  for  the  two  women. 
After  that,  Miriam  came  to  see  it  every  day.  It  seemed  so 
close  to  her.  Again,  going  down  the  hedgeside  with  the  girl, 
he  noticed  the  celandines,  scalloped  splashes  of  gold,  on  the 
side  of  the  ditch. 

"I  like  them,"  he  said,  "when  their  petals  go  flat  back  with 
the  sunshine.  They  seem  to  be  pressing  themselves  at  the 
sun." 

And  then  the  celandines  ever  after  drew  her  with  a  little 
spell.  Anthropomorphic  as  she  was,  she  stimulated  him 
into  appreciating  things  thus,  and  then  they  lived  for  her. 
She  seemed  to  need  things  kindling  in  her  imagination  or 
in  her  soul  before  she  felt  she  had  them.  And  she  was  cut 
off  from  ordinary  life  by  her  religious  intensity  which  made 
the  world  for  her  either  a  nunnery  garden  or  a  paradise, 
where  sin  and  knowledge  were  not,  or  else  an  ugly,  cruel 
thing. 

So  it  was  in  this  atmosphere  of  subtle  intimacy,  this  meet- 


LAD- AND -GIRL  LOVE  1 77 

ing  in  their  common  feeling  for  something  in  nature,  that 
their  love  started. 

Personally,  he  was  a  long  time  before  he  realized  her.  For 
ten  months  he  had  to  stay  at  home  after  his  illness.  For  a 
while  he  went  to  Skegness  with  his  mother,  and  was  per- 
fectly happy.  But  even  from  the  seaside  he  wrote  long  letters 
to  Mrs.  Leivers  about  the  shore  and  the  sea.  And  he  brought 
back  his  beloved  sketches  of  the  flat  Lincoln  coast,  anxious 
for  them  to  see.  Almost  they  would  interest  the  Leivers  more 
than  they  interested  his  mother.  It  was  not  his  art  Mrs.  More) 
cared  about;  it  was  himself  and  his  achievement.  But  Mrs* 
Leivers  and  her  children  were  almost  his  disciples.  They 
kindled  him  and  made  him  glow  to  his  work,  whereas  his 
mother's  influence  was  to  make  him  quietly  determinedf 
patient,  dogged,  unwearied. 

He  soon  was  friends  with  the  boys,  whose  rudeness  wa? 
only  superficial.  They  had  all,  when  they  could  trust  them- 
selves, a  strange  gentleness  and  lovableness. 

"Will  you  come  with  me  on  to  the  fallow?"  asked  Edgar( 
rather  hesitatingly. 

Paul  went  joyfully,  and  spent  the  afternoon  helping  to  hoe 
or  to  single  turnips  with  his  friend.  He  used  to  lie  with  the 
three  brothers  in  the  hay  piled  up  in  the  barn,  and  tell  them 
about  Nottingham  and  about  Jordan's.  In  return,  they  taught 
him  to  milk,  and  let  him  do  little  jobs— chopping  hay  or 
pulping  turnips— just  as  much  as  he  liked.  At  midsummer  he 
worked  all  through  hay-harvest  with  them,  and  then  he 
loved  them.  The  family  was  so  cut  off  from  the  world, 
actually.  They  seemed,  somehow,  like  "les  derniers  fils 
d'une  race  epuisee."  Though  the  lads  were  strong  and 
healthy,  yet  they  had  all  that  over-sensitiveness  and  hanging- 
back  which  made  them  so  lonely,  yet  also  such  close,  delicate 
friends  once  their  intimacy  was  won.  Paul  loved  them  dearly, 
and  they  him. 

Miriam  came  later.  But  he  had  come  into  her  life  before 
she  made  any  mark  on  his.  One  dull  afternoon,  when  the 
men  were  on  the  land  and  the  rest  at  school,  only  Miriam 


178  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

and  her  mother  at  home,  the  girl  said  to  him,  after  having 
hesitated  for  some  time: 

"Have  you  seen  the  swing?" 

"No,"  he  answered.  "Where?" 

"In  the  cowshed,"  she  replied. 

She  always  hesitated  to  offer  or  to  show  him  anything. 
Men  have  such  different  standards  of  worth  from  women, 
and  her  dear  things— the  valuable  things  to  her— her  brothers 
had  so  often  mocked  or  flouted. 

"Come  on,  then,"  he  replied,  jumping  up. 

There  were  two  cowsheds,  one  on  either  side  of  the 
barn.  In  the  lower,  darker  shed  there  was  standing  for  four 
cows.  Hens  flew  scolding  over  the  manger- wall  as  the  youth 
and  girl  went  forward  for  the  great  thick  rope  which  hung 
from  the  beam  in  the  darkness  overhead,  and  was  pushed 
back  over  a  peg  in  the  wall. 

"It's  something  like  a  rope!"  he  exclaimed  appreciatively; 
and  he  sat  down  on  it,  anxious  to  try  it.  Then  immediately 
he  rose. 

"Come  on,  then,  and  have  first  go,"  he  said  to  the  girl. 

"See,"  she  answered,  going  into  the  barn,  "we  put  some 
bags  on  the  seat";  and  she  made  the  swing  comfortable  for 
him.  That  gave  her  pleasure.  He  held  the  rope. 

"Come  on,  then,"  he  said  to  her. 

"No,  I  won't  go  first,"  she  answered. 

She  stood  aside  in  her  still,  aloof  fashion. 

"Why?" 

"You  go,"  she  pleaded. 

Almost  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  the  pleasure 
of  giving  up  to  a  man,  of  spoiling  him.  Paul  looked  at  her. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  sitting  down.  "Mind  out!" 

He  set  off  with  a  spring,  and  in  a  moment  was  flying 
through  the  air,  almost  out  of  the  door  of  the  shed,  the 
upper  half  of  which  was  open,  showing  outside  the  drizzling 
rain,  the  filthy  yard,  the  cattle  standing  disconsolate  against 
the  black  cart-shed,  and  at  the  back  of  all  the  grey-green 
wall  of  the  wood.  She  stood  below  in  her  crimson  tam-o'- 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  1 79 

shanter  and  watched.  He  looked  down  at  her,  and  she  saw 
his  blue  eyes  sparkling. 

"It's  a  treat  of  a  swing,"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

He  was  swinging  through  the  air,  every  bit  of  him  swing- 
ing, like  a  bird  that  swoops  for  joy  of  movement.  And  he 
looked  down  at  her.  Her  crimson  cap  hung  over  her  dark 
curls,  her  beautiful  warm  face,  so  still  in  a  kind  of  brooding, 
was  lifted  towards  him.  It  was  dark  and  rather  cold  in  the 
shed.  Suddenly  a  swallow  came  down  from  the  high  roof 
and  darted  out  of  the  door. 

"I  didn't  know  a  bird  was  watching,"  he  called. 

He  swung  negligently.  She  could  feel  him  falling  and 
lifting  through  the  air,  as  if  he  were  lying  on  some  force. 

"Now  I'll  die,"  he  said,  in  a  detached,  dreamy  voice,  a? 
though  he  were  the  dying  motion  of  the  swing.  She  watchec^ 
him,  fascinated.  Suddenly  he  put  on  the  brake  and  jumped 
out. 

"I've  had  a  long  turn,"  he  said.  "But  it's  a  treat  of  a  swing 
—it's  a  real  treat  of  a  swing!" 

Miriam  was  amused  that  he  took  a  swing  so  seriously  and 
felt  so  warmly  over  it. 

"No;  you  go  on,"  she  said. 

"Why,  don't  you  want  one?"  he  asked,  astonished. 

"Well,  not  much.  I'll  have  just  a  little." 

She  sat  down,  whilst  he  kept  the  bags  in  place  for  her. 

"It's  so  ripping!"  he  said,  setting  her  in  motion.  "Keep 
your  heels  up,  or  they'll  bang  the  manger-wall." 

She  felt  the  accuracy  with  which  he  caught  her,  exactly 
at  the  right  moment,  and  the  exactly  proportionate  strength 
of  his  thrust,  and  she  was  afraid.  Down  to  her  bowels  went 
the  hot  wave  of  fear.  She  was  in  his  hands.  Again,  firm  and 
inevitable  came  the  thrust  at  the  right  moment.  She  gripped 
the  rope,  almost  swooning. 

"Ha!"  she  laughed  in  fear.  "No  higher!" 

"But  you're  not  a  bit  high,"  he  remonstrated. 

"But  no  higher." 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


He  heard  the  fear  in  her  v^oice,  and  desisted.  Her  heart 
melted  in  hot  pain  when  the  moment  came  for  him  to  thrust 
her  forward  again.  But  he  left  her  alone.  She  began  to 
breathe. 

"Won't  you  really  go  any  farther?"  he  asked.  "Should  I 
keep  you  there?" 

"No;  let  me  go  by  myself,"  she  answered. 

He  moved  aside  and  watched  her. 

"Why,  you're  scarcely  moving,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  slightly  with  shame,  and  in  a  moment  got 
down. 

"They  say  if  you  can  swing  you  won't  be  sea-sick,"  he 
said,  as  he  mounted  again.  "I  don't  believe  I  should  ever 
be  sea-sick." 

Away  he  went.  There  was  something  fascinating  to  her 
in  him.  For  the  moment  he  was  nothing  but  a  piece  of 
swinging  stuff;  not  a  particle  of  him  that  did  not  swing. 
She  could  never  lose  herself  so,  nor  could  her  brothers.  It 
roused  a  warmth  in  her.  It  were  almost  as  if  he  were  a  flame 
that  had  lit  a  warmth  in  her  whilst  he  swTung  in  the  middle 
air. 

And  gradually  the  intimacy  with  the  family  concentrated 
for  Paul  on  three  persons— the  mother,  Edgar,  and  Miriam. 
To  the  mother  he  went  for  that  sympathy  and  that  appeal 
which  seemed  to  draw  him  out.  Edgar  was  his  very  close 
friend.  And  to  Miriam  he  more  or  less  condescended,  be- 
cause she  seemed  so  humble. 

But  the  girl  gradually  sought  him  out.  If  he  brought  up 
his  sketch-book,  it  was  she  who  pondered  longest  over  the 
last  picture.  Then  she  would  look  up  at  him.  Suddenly,  her 
dark  eyes  alight  like  water  that  shakes  with  a  stream  of 
gold  in  the  dark,  she  would  ask: 

"Why  do  I  like  this  so?" 

Always  something  in  his  breast  shrank  from  these  close, 
intimate,  dazzled  looks  of  hers. 
"Why  do  you?"  he  asked. 
"I  don't  know.  It  seems  so  true." 

"It's  because— it's  because  there  is  scarcely  any  shadow  in 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  l8l 

it;  it's  more  shimmery,  as  if  I'd  painted  the  shimmering 
protoplasm  in  the  leaves  and  everywhere,  and  not  the  stiff- 
ness of  the  shape.  That  seems  dead  to  me.  Only  this  shinv 
meriness  is  the  real  living.  The  shape  is  a  dead  crust.  The 
shimmer  is  inside  really." 

And  she,  with  her  little  finger  in  her  mouth,  would  ponder 
these  sayings.  They  gave  her  a  feeling  of  life  again,  and 
vivified  things  which  had  meant  nothing  to  her.  She  man- 
aged to  find  some  meaning  in  his  struggling,  abstract 
speeches.  And  they  were  the  medium  through  which  she 
came  distinctly  at  her  beloved  objects. 

Another  day  she  sat  at  sunset  whilst  he  was  painting  some 
pine-trees  which  caught  the  red  glare  from  the  west.  He 
had  been  quiet. 

"There  you  are!"  he  said  suddenly.  "I  wanted  that.  Now, 
look  at  them  and  tell  me,  are  they  pine-trunks  or  are  they 
red  coals,  standing-up  pieces  of  fire  in  that  darkness?  There's 
God's  burning  bush  for  you,  that  burned  not  away." 

Miriam  looked,  and  was  frightened.  But  the  pine-trunks 
were  wonderful  to  her,  and  distinct.  He  packed  his  box  and 
rose.  Suddenly  he  looked  at  her. 

"Why  are  you  always  sad?"  he  asked  her. 

"Sad!"  she  exclaimed,  looking  up  at  him  with  startled, 
wonderful  brown  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "You  are  always,  always  sad." 

"I  am  not— oh,  not  a  bit!"  she  cried. 

"But  even  your  joy  is  like  a  flame  coming  off  of  sadness," 
he  persisted.  "You're  never  jolly  or  even  just  all  right." 

"No,"  she  pondered.  "I  wonder— why." 

"Because  you're  not;  because  you're  different  inside,  like 
a  pine-tree,  and  then  you  flare  up;  but  you're  not  just  like 
an  ordinary  tree,  with  fidgety  leaves  and  jolly  " 

He  got  tangled  up  in  his  own  speech;  but  she  brooded 
on  it,  and  he  had  a  strange,  roused  sensation,  as  if  his  feelings 
were  new.  She  got  so  near  him.  It  was  a  strange  stimulant. 

Then  sometimes  he  hated  her.  Her  youngest  brother  was 
only  five.  He  was  a  frail  lad,  with  immense  brown  eyes  in 
his  quaint,  fragile  face— one  of  Reynold's  "Choir  of  Angels,'* 


f»2 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


with  a  touch  of  elf.  Often  Miriam  kneeled  to  the  child  and 
drew  him  to  her. 

"Eh,  my  Hubert!"  she  sang,  in  a  voice  heavy  and  sur- 
charged with  love.  "Eh,  my  Hubert!" 

And,  folding  him  in  her  arms,  she  swayed  slightly  from 
side  to  side  with  love,  her  face  half  lifted,  her  eyes  half 
closed,  her  voice  drenched  with  love. 

"Don't!"  said  the  child,  uneasy— "don't,  Miriam!" 

"Yes;  you  love  me,  don't  you?"  she  murmured  deep  in 
her  throat,  almost  as  if  she  were  in  a  trance,  and  swaying 
also  as  if  she  were  swooned  in  an  ecstasy  of  love. 

"Don't!"  repeated  the  child,  a  frown  on  his  clear  brow. 

"You  love  me,  don't  you?"  she  murmured. 

"What  do  you  make  such  a  fuss  for?"  cried  Paul,  all 
in  suffering  because  of  her  extreme  emotion.  "Why  can't 
you  be  ordinary  with  him?" 

She  let  the  child  go,  and  rose,  and  said  nothing.  Her 
intensity,  wThich  would  leave  no  emotion  on  a  normal  plane, 
irritated  the  youth  into  a  frenzy.  And  this  tearful,  naked 
contact  of  her  on  small  occasions  shocked  him.  He  was  used 
to  his  mother's  reserve.  And  on  such  occasions  he  was  thank- 
ful in  his  heart  and  soul  that  he  had  his  mother,  so  sane  and 
wholesome. 

All  the  life  of  Miriam's  body  was  in  her  eyes,  which  were 
usually  dark  as  a  dark  church,  but  could  flame  with  light 
like  a  conflagration.  Her  face  scarcely  ever  altered  from  its 
look  of  brooding.  She  might  have  been  one  of  the  women 
who  went  with  Mary  when  Jesus  was  dead.  Her  body  was 
not  flexible  and  living.  She  walked  with  a  swing,  rather 
heavily,  her  head  bowed  forward,  pondering.  She  was  not 
clumsy,  and  yet  none  of  her  movements  seemed  quite  the 
movement.  Often,  when  wiping  the  dishes,  she  would  stand 
in  bewilderment  and  chagrin  because  she  had  pulled  in  two 
halves  a  cup  or  a  tumbler.  It  was  as  if,  in  her  fear  and  self- 
mistrust,  she  put  too  much  strength  into  the  effort.  There 
was  no  looseness  or  abandon  about  her.  Everything  was 
gripped  stiff  with  intensity,  and  her  effort,  overcharged, 
closed  in  on  itself. 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE 


She  rarely  varied  from  her  swinging,  forward,  intea^ 
walk.  Occasionally  she  ran  with  Paul  down  the  fields.  Then 
her  eyes  blazed  naked  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  that  frightened 
him.  But  she  was  physically  afraid.  If  she  were  getting  over 
a  stile,  she  gripped  his  hands  in  a  little  hard  anguish,  and 
began  to  lose  her  presence  of  mind.  And  he  could  not  per- 
suade her  to  jump  from  even  a  small  height.  Her  eyes  dilated 
became  exposed  and  palpitating. 

"No!"  she  cried,  half  laughing  in  terror— "no!" 

"You  shall!"  he  cried,  once,  and,  jerking  her  forward,  he 
brought  her  falling  from  the  fence.  But  her  wild  "Ah!"  of 
pain,  as  if  she  were  losing  consciousness,  cut  him.  She  landed 
on  her  feet  safely,  and  afterwards  had  courage  in  this  respect. 

She  was  very  much  dissatisfied  with  her  lot. 

"Don't  you  like  being  at  home?"  Paul  asked  her,  surprised. 

"Who  would?"  she  answered,  low  and  intense.  "What  is 
it?  I'm  all  day  cleaning  what  the  boys  make  just  as  bad  in 
five  minutes.  I  don't  want  to  be  at  home." 

"What  do  you  want,  then?" 

"I  want  to  do  something.  I  want  a  chance  like  anybody 
else.  Why  should  I,  because  I'm  a  girl,  be  kept  at  home  and 
not  allowed  to  be  anything?  What  chance  have  I?" 

"Chance  of  what?" 

"Of  knowing  anything—of  learning,  of  doing  anything. 
It's  not  fair,  because  I'm  a  woman." 

She  seemed  very  bitter.  Paul  wondered.  In  his  own  home 
Annie  was  almost  glad  to  be  a  girl.  She  had  not  so  much 
responsibility;  things  were  lighter  for  her.  She  never  wanted 
to  be  other  than  a  girl.  But  Miriam  almost  fiercely  wished 
she  were  a  man.  And  yet  she  hated  men  at  the  same  time. 

"But  it's  as  well  to  be  a  woman  as  a  man,"  he  said, 
frowning. 

"Ha!  Is  it?  Men  have  everything." 

"I  should  think  women  ought  to  be  as  glad  to  be  women 
as  men  are  to  be  men,"  he  answered. 

"No!"  she  shook  her  head— "no!  Everything  the  men 
have." 

"But  what  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 


184  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"I  want  to  learn.  Why  should  it  be  that  I  know  nothing?" 

"What!  such  as  mathematics  and  French?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I  know  mathematics?  Yes!"  she  cried, 
her  eye  expanding  in  a  kind  of  defiance. 

"Well,  you  can  learn  as  much  as  I  know,"  he  said.  "I'll 
teach  you,  if  you  like." 

Her  eyes  dilated.  She  mistrusted  him  as  teacher. 

"Would  you?"  he  asked. 

Her  head  had  dropped,  and  she  was  sucking  her  finger 
broodingly. 

"Yes,"  she  said  hesitatingly. 

He  used  to  tell  his  mother  all  these  things. 

"I'm  going  to  teach  Miriam  algebra,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Morel,  "I  hope  shell  get  fat  on 
it." 

When  he  went  up  to  the  farm  on  the  Monday  evening, 
it  was  drawing  twilight.  Miriam  was  just  sweeping  up 
the  kitchen,  and  was  kneeling  at  the  hearth  when  he  en- 
tered. Everyone  was  out  but  her.  She  looked  round  at  him, 
flushed,  her  dark  eyes  shining,  her  fine  hair  falling  about  her 
face. 

"Hello!"  she  said,  soft  and  musical.  "I  knew  it  was  you." 
"How?" 

"I  knew  your  step.  Nobody  treads  so  quick  and  firm." 
He  sat  down,  sighing. 

"Ready  to  do  some  algebra?"  he  asked,  drawing  a  little 
kook  from  his  pocket. 
"But — " 

He  could  feel  her  backing  away. 
"You  said  you  wanted,"  he  insisted. 
"Tonight,  though?"  she  faltered. 

'But  I  came  on  purpose.  And  if  you  want  to  learn  it,  you 
must  begin." 

She  took  up  her  ashes  in  the  dustpan  and  looked  at  him, 
half  tremulously,  laughing. 

"Yes,  but  tonight!  You  see,  I  haven't  thought  of  it." 

"Well,  my  goodness!  Take  the  ashes  and  come." 

He  went  and  sat  on  the  stone  bench  in  the  back-yard, 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  185 

where  the  big  milk-cans  were  standing,  tipped  up,  to  air. 
The  men  were  in  the  cowsheds.  He  could  hear  the  little 
sing-song  of  the  milk  spurting  into  the  pails.  Presently  she 
came,  bringing  some  big  greenish  apples. 

"You  know  you  like  them,"  she  said. 

He  took  a  bite. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  with  his  mouth  full. 

She  was  short-sighted,  and  peered  over  his  shoulder.  It 
irritated  him.  He  gave  her  the  book  quickly. 

"Here,"  he  said.  "It's  only  letters  for  figures.  You  put 
down  V  instead  of  V  or  '6.'  " 

They  worked,  he  talking,  she  with  her  head  down  on 
the  book.  He  was  quick  and  hasty.  She  never  answered, 
Occasionally,  when  he  demanded  of  her,  "Do  you  see?" 
she  looked  up  at  him,  her  eyes  wide  with  the  half-laugh  that 
comes  of  fear.  "Don't  you?"  he  cried. 

He  had  been  too  fast.  But  she  said  nothing.  He  questioned 
her  more,  then  got  hot.  It  made  his  blood  rouse  to  see  her 
there,  as  it  were,  at  his  mercy,  her  mouth  open,  her  eyes 
dilated  with  laughter  that  was  afraid,  apologetic,  ashamed. 
Then  Edgar  came  along  with  two  buckets  of  milk. 

"Hello!"  he  said.  "What  are  you  doing?" 

"Algebra,"  replied  Paul. 

"Algebra!"  repeated  Edgar  curiously.  Then  he  passed  on 
with  a  laugh.  Paul  took  a  bite  at  his  forgotten  apple,  looked 
at  the  miserable  cabbages  in  the  garden,  pecked  into  lace  by 
the  fowls,  and  he  wanted  to  pull  them  up.  Then  he  glanced 
at  Miriam.  She  was  poring  over  the  book,  seemed  absorbed 
in  it,  yet  trembling  lest  she  could  not  get  at  it.  It  made  him 
cross.  She  was  ruddy  and  beautiful.  Yet  her  soul  seemed  to 
be  intensely  supplicating.  The  algebra-book  she  closed, 
shrinking,  knowing  he  was  angered;  and  at  the  same  instant 
he  grew  gentle,  seeing  her  hurt  because  she  did  not  under* 
stand. 

But  things  came  slowly  to  her.  And  when  she  held  herself 
in  a  grip,  seemed  so  utterly  humble  before  the  lesson,  it 
made  his  blood  rouse.  He  stormed  at  her,  got  ashamed,  con- 
tinued the  lesson,  and  grew  furious  again,  abusing  her.  She 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


listened  in  silence.  Occasionally,  very  rarely,  she  defended 
herself.  Her  liquid  dark  eyes  blazed  at  him. 

"You  don't  give  me  time  to  learn  it,"  she  said. 

"All  right,"  he  answered,  throwing  the  book  on  the  table 
and  lighting  a  cigarette.  Then,  after  awhile,  he  went  back 
to  her  repentant.  So  the  lessons  went.  He  was  always  either 
in  a  rage  or  very  gentle. 

"What  do  you  tremble  your  soul  before  it  for?"  he  cried. 
"You  don't  learn  algebra  with  your  blessed  soul.  Can't  you 
look  at  it  with  your  clear  simple  wits?" 

Often,  when  he  went  again  into  the  kitchen,  Mrs.  Leivers 
would  look  at  him  reproachfully,  saying: 

"Paul,  don't  be  so  hard  on  Miriam.  She  may  not  be  quick, 
but  I'm  sure  she  tries." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  he  said  rather  pitiably.  "I  go  off  like  it." 

"You  don't  mind  me,  Miriam,  do  you?"  he  asked  of  the 
girl  later. 

"No,"  she  reassured  him  in  her  beautiful  deep  tones— "no, 
I  don't  mind." 

"Don't  mind  me;  it's  my  fault." 

But,  in  spite  of  himself,  his  blood  began  to  boil  with  her. 
It  was  strange  that  no  one  else  made  him  in  such  fury.  He 
flared  against  her.  Once  he  threw  the  pencil  in  her  face. 
There  was  a  silence.  She  turned  her  face  slightly  aside. 

"I  didn't—"  he  began,  but  got  no  farther,  feeling  weak  in 
all  his  bones.  She  never  reproached  him  or  was  angry  with 
him.  He  was  often  cruelly  ashamed.  But  still  again  his  anger 
burst  like  a  bubble  surcharged;  and  still,  when  he  saw  her 
eager,  silent,  as  it  were,  blind  face,  he  felt  he  wanted  to  throw 
the  pencil  in  it;  and  still,  when  he  saw  her  hand  trembling 
and  her  mouth  parted  with  suffering,  his  heart  was  scalded 
with  pain  for  her.  And  because  of  the  intensity  to  which 
she  roused  him,  he  sought  her. 

Then  he  often  avoided  her  and  went  with  Edgar.  Miriam 
and  her  brother  were  naturally  antagonistic.  Edgar  was  a 
rationalist,  who  was  curious,  and  had  a  sort  of  scientific  in- 
terest in  life.  It  was  a  great  bitterness  to  Miriam  to  see  herself 
deserted  by  Paul  for  Edgar,  who  seemed  so  much  lower.  But 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  1 87 

the  youth  was  very  happy  with  her  elder  brother.  The  two 
men  spent  afternoons  together  on  the  land  or  in  the  loft 
doing  carpentry,  when  it  rained.  And  they  talked  together, 
or  Paul  taught  Edgar  the  songs  he  himself  had  learned  from 
Annie  at  the  piano.  And  often  all  the  men,  Mr.  Leivers  as 
well,  had  bitter  debates  on  the  nationalizing  of  the  land  and 
similar  problems.  Paul  had  already  heard  his  mother's  views, 
and  as  these  were  as  yet  his  own,  he  argued  for  her.  Miriam 
attended  and  took  part,  but  was  all  the  time  waiting  until 
it  should  be  over  and  a  personal  communication  might 
begin. 

"After  all,"  she  said  within  herself,  "if  the  land  were 
nationalized,  Edgar  and  Paul  and  I  would  be  just  the  same." 
So  she  waited  for  the  youth  to  come  back  to  her. 

He  was  studying  for  his  painting.  He  loved  to  sit  at  home, 
alone  with  his  mother,  at  night,  working  and  working.  She 
sewed  or  read.  Then,  looking  up  from  his  task,  he  would 
rest  his  eyes  for  a  moment  on  her  face,  that  was  bright  with 
living  warmth,  and  he  returned  gladly  to  his  work. 

"I  can  do  my  best  things  when  you  sit  there  in  your 
rocking-chair,  mother,"  he  said. 

"I'm  sure!"  she  exclaimed,  sniffing  with  mock  scepticism. 
But  she  felt  it  was  so,  and  her  heart  quivered  with  brightness. 
For  many  hours  she  sat  still,  slightly  conscious  of  him 
labouring  away,  whilst  she  worked  or  read  her  book.  And 
he,  with  all  his  soul's  intensity  directing  his  pencil,  could 
feel  her  warmth  inside  him  like  strength.  They  were  both 
very  happy  so,  and  both  unconscious  of  it.  These  times, 
that  meant  so  much,  and  which  were  real  living,  they  almost 
ignored. 

He  was  conscious  only  when  stimulated.  A  sketch  fin- 
ished, he  always  wanted  to  take  it  to  Miriam.  Then  he  was 
stimulated  into  knowledge  of  the  work  he  had  produced 
unconsciously.  In  contact  with  Miriam  he  gained  insight; 
his  vision  went  deeper.  From  his  mother  he  drew  the  life- 
warmth,  the  strength  to  produce;  Miriam  urged  this  warmth 
into  intensity  like  a  white  light. 

When  he  returned  to  the  factory  the  conditions  of  work 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


were  better.  He  had  Wednesday  afternoon  off  to  go  to  the 
Art  School— Miss  Jordan's  provision— returning  in  the  eve- 
ning. Then  the  factory  closed  at  six  instead  of  at  eight  on 
Thursday  and  Friday  evenings. 

One  evening  in  the  summer  Miriam  and  he  went  over 
the  fields  by  Herod's  Farm  on  their  way  from  the  library 
home.  So  it  was  only  three  miles  to  Willey  Farm.  There 
was  a  yellow  glow  over  the  mowing-grass,  and  the  sorrel- 
heads  burned  crimson.  Gradually,  as  they  walked  along 
the  high  land,  the  gold  in  the  west  sank  down  to  red,  the 
red  to  crimson,  and  then  the  chill  blue  crept  up  against 
the  glow. 

They  came  out  upon  the  high  road  to  Alfreton,  which 
ran  white  between  the  darkening  fields.  There  Paul  hesi- 
tated. It  was  two  miles  home  for  him,  one  mile  forward  for 
Miriam.  They  both  looked  up  the  road  that  ran  in  shadow 
right  under  the  glow  of  the  north-west  sky  .  On  the  crest  of 
the  hill,  Selby,  with  its  stark  houses  and  the  up-pricked 
headstocks  of  the  pit,  stood  in  black  silhouette  small  against 
the  sky. 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Nine  o'clock!"  he  said. 

The  pair  stood,  loath  to  part,  hugging  their  books. 
"The  wood  is  so  lovely  now,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  you  to 
see  it." 

He  followed  her  slowly  across  the  road  to  the  white  gate. 
"They  grumble  so  if  I'm  late,"  he  said. 
"But  you're  not  doing  anything  wrong,"  she  answered 
impatiently. 

He  followed  her  across  the  nibbled  pasture  in  the  dusk. 
There  was  a  coolness  in  the  wood,  a  scent  of  leaves,  of 
honeysuckle,  and  a  twilight.  The  two  walked  in  silence. 
Night  came  wonderfully  there,  among  the  throng  of  dark 
tree-trunks.  He  looked  round,  expectant. 

She  wanted  to  show  him  a  certain  wild-rose  bush  she 
had  discovered.  She  knew  it  was  wonderful.  And  yet,  till  he 
had  seen  it,  she  felt  it  had  not  come  into  her  soul.  Only  he 
could  make  it  her  own,  immortal.  She  was  dissatisfied. 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  1 89 

Dew  was  already  on  the  paths.  In  the  old  oak-wood  a  mist 
was  rising,  and  he  hesitated,  wondering  whether  one  white- 
ness were  a  strand  of  fog  or  only  campion-flowers  pallid  in, 
a  cloud. 

By  the  time  they  came  to  the  pine-trees  Miriam  was 
getting  very  eager  and  very  tense.  Her  bush  might  be  gone. 
She  might  not  be  able  to  find  it;  and  she  wanted  it  so  much. 
Almost  passionately  she  wanted  to  be  with  him  when  he 
stood  before  the  flowers.  They  were  going  to  have  a  com- 
munion together— something  that  thrilled  her,  something 
holy.  He  was  walking  beside  her  in  silence.  They  were  very 
near  to  each  other.  She  trembled,  and  he  listened,  vaguely 
anxious. 

Coming  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  they  saw  the  sky  in 
front,  like  mother-of-pearl,  and  the  earth  growing  dark. 
Somewhere  on  the  outermost  branches  of  the  pine-wood 
the  honeysuckle  was  streaming  scent. 

"Where?"  he  asked. 

"Down  the  middle  path,"  she  murmured,  quivering. 

When  they  turned  the  corner  of  the  path  she  stood  stilL 
In  the  wide  walk  between  the  pines,  gazing  rather  fright- 
ened, she  could  distinguish  nothing  for  some  moments;  the 
greying  light  robbed  things  of  their  colour.  Then  she  saw 
her  bush. 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  hastening  forward. 

It  was  very  still.  The  tree  was  tall  and  straggling.  It  had 
thrown  its  briers  over  a  hawthorn-bush,  and  its  long  stream- 
ers trailed  thick,  right  down  to  the  grass,  splashing  the  dark- 
ness everywhere  with  great  spilt  stars,  pure  white.  In  bosses 
of  ivory  and  in  large  splashed  stars  the  roses  gleamed  on  the 
darkness  of  foliage  and  stems  and  grass.  Paul  and  Miriam 
stood  close  together,  silent,  and  watched.  Point  after  point 
the  steady  roses  shone  out  to  them,  seeming  to  kindle  some- 
thing in  their  souls.  The  dusk  came  like  smoke  around,  and 
still  did  not  put  out  the  roses. 

Paul  looked  into  Miriam's  eyes.  She  was  pale  and  expectant 
with  wonder,  her  lips  were  parted,  and  her  dark  eves  iav 
open  to  him.  His  look  seemed  to  travel  down  into  her.  Her 


I90  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

soul  quivered.  It  was  the  communion  she  wanted.  He  turned 
aside,  as  if  pained.  He  turned  to  the  bush. 

"They  seem  as  if  they  walk  like  butterflies,  and  shake 
themselves,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  her  roses.  They  were  white,  some  incurved 
and  holy,  others  expanded  in  an  ecstasy.  The  tree  was  dark 
as  a  shadow.  She  lifted  her  hand  impulsively  to  tne  flowers; 
she  went  forward  and  touched  them  in  worship. 

"Let  us  go,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  cool  scent  of  ivory  roses— a  white,  virgin 
scent.  Something  made  him  feel  anxious  and  imprisoned. 
The  two  walked  in  silence. 

"Till  Sunday,"  he  said  quietly,  and  left  her;  and  she  walked 
home  slowly,  feeling  her  soul  satisfied  with  the  holiness  of 
the  night.  He  stumbled  down  the  path.  And  as  soon  as  he 
was  out  of  the  wood,  in  the  free  open  meadow,  where  he 
could  breathe,  he  started  to  run  as  fast  as  he  could.  It  was 
like  a  delicious  delirium  in  his  veins. 

Always  when  he  went  with  Miriam,  and  it  grew  rather 
late,  he  knew  his  mother  was  fretting  and  getting  angry 
about  him— why,  he  could  not  understand.  As  he  went  into 
the  house,  flinging  down  his  cap,  his  mother  looked  up  at 
the  clock.  She  had  been  sitting  thinking,  because  a  chill  to 
her  eyes  prevented  her  reading.  She  could  feel  Paul  being 
drawn  away  by  this  girl.  And  she  did  not  care  for  Miriam. 
"'She  is  one  of  those  who  will  want  to  suck  a  man's  soul  out 
till  he  has  none  of  his  own  left,"  she  said  to  herself ;  "and 
he  is  just  such  a  gaby  as  to  let  himself  be  absorbed.  She  will 
never  let  him  become  a  man ;  she  never  will."  So,  while  he 
was  away  with  Miriam,  Mrs.  Morel  grew  more  and  more 
worked  up. 

She  glanced  at  the  clock  and  said,  coldly  and  rather  tired : 
"You  have  been  far  enough  tonight." 
His  soul,  warm  and  exposed  from  contact  with  the  girl, 
shrank. 

"You  must  have  been  right  home  with  her,"  his  mother 
continued. 

He  would  not  answer.  Mrs.  Morel,  looking  at  him  quickly, 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  191 

saw  his  hair  was  damp  on  his  forehead  with  haste,  saw  him 
frowning  in  his  heavy  fashion,  resentfully. 

"She  must  be  wonderfully  fascinating,  that  you  can't  get 
away  from  her,  but  must  go  trailing  eight  miles  at  this  time 
of  night." 

He  was  hurt  between  the  past  glamour  with  Miriam  and 
the  knowledge  that  his  mother  fretted.  He  had  meant  not 
to  say  anything,  to  refuse  to  answer.  But  he  could  not  harden 
his  heart  to  ignore  his  mother. 

"I  do  like  to  talk  to  her,"  he  answered  irritably. 
.  "Is  there  nobody  else  to  talk  to?" 

"You  wouldn't  say  anything  if  I  went  with  Edgar." 

"You  know  I  should.  You  know,  whoever  you  went  with  f 
I  should  say  it  was  too  far  for  you  to  go  trailing,  late  at  night, 
when  you've  been  to  Nottingham.  Besides"— her  voice  sud  • 
denly  flashed  into  anger  and  contempt—"it  is  disgusting- 
bits  of  lads  and  girls  courting." 

"It  is  not  courting,"  he  cried. 

"I  don't  know  what  else  you  call  it." 

"It's  not!  Do  you  think  we  spoon  and  do?  We  only  talk." 

"Till  goodness  knows  what  time  and  distance,"  was  the 
sarcastic  rejoinder. 

Paul  snapped  at  the  laces  of  his  boots  angrily. 

"What  are  you  so  mad  about?"  he  asked.  "Because  you 
don't  like  her?" 

"I  don't  say  I  don't  like  her.  But  I  don't  hold  with  children 
keeping  company,  and  never  did." 

"But  you  don't  mind  our  Annie  going  out  with  Jim 
Inger." 

"They've  more  sense  than  you  two." 
"Why?" 

"Our  Annie's  not  one  of  the  deep  sort." 

He  failed  to  see  the  meaning  of  this  remark.  But  his  mother 
looked  tired.  She  was  never  so  strong  after  William's  death: 
and  her  eyes  hurt  her. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it's  so  pretty  in  the  country.  Mr.  Sleath 
asked  about  you.  He  said  he'd  missed  you.  Are  you  a  bit 
better?"       *  , 


IQ2 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"I  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  a  long  time  ago,"  she  replied. 
"Why,  mother,  you  know  you  wouldn't  have  gone  before 
quarter-past  ten." 
"Oh  yes,  I  should!" 

"Oh,  little  woman,  you'd  say  anything  now  you're  dis- 
agreeable with  me.  wouldn't  you?" 

He  kissed  her  forehead  that  he  knew  so  well:  the  deep 
marks  between  the  brows,  the  rising  of  the  fine  hair,  grey- 
ing now,  and  the  proud  setting  of  the  temples.  His  hand 
lingered  on  her  shoulder  after  his  kiss.  Then  he  went  slowly 
to  bed.  He  had  forgotten  Miriam;  he  only  saw  how  his 
mother's  hair  was  lifted  back  from  her  warm,  broad  brow. 
And  somehow,  she  was  hurt. 

Then  the  next  time  he  saw  Miriam  he  said  to  her: 

"Don't  let  me  be  late  tonight— not  later  than  ten  o'clock. 
My  mother  gets  so  upset." 

Miriam  dropped  her  head,  brooding. 

"Why  does  she  get  upset?"  she  asked. 

"Because  she  says  I  oughtn't  to  be  out  late  when  I  have 
to  get  up  early." 

"Very  well!"  said  Miriam,  rather  quietly,  with  just  a  touch 
of  a  sneer. 

He  resented  that.  And  he  was  usually  late  again. 

That  there  was  any  love  growing  between  him  and 
Miriam  neither  of  them  would  have  acknowledged.  He 
thought  he  was  too  sane  for  such  sentimentality,  and  she 
thought  herself  too  lofty.  They  both  were  late  in  coming 
to  maturity,  and  psychical  ripeness  was  much  behind  even 
the  physical.  Miriam  was  exceedingly  sensitive,  as  her  mother 
had  always  been.  The  slightest  grossness  made  her  recoil 
almost  in  anguish.  Her  brothers  were  brutal,  but  never  coarse 
in  speech.  The  men  did  all  the  discussing  of  farm  matters 
outside.  But,  perhaps  because  of  the  continual  business  of 
birth  and  of  begetting  which  goes  on  upon  every  farm, 
Miriam  was  the  more  hypersensitive  to  the  matter,  and  her 
Mood  was  chastened  almost  to  disgust  of  the  faintest  sug- 
gestion of  such  intercourse.  Paul  took  his  pitch  from  her, 
*nd  their  intimacy  went  on  in  an  utterly  blanched  and  chaste 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  1 93 

fashion.  It  could  never  be  mentioned  that  the  mare  was  in 
foal. 

When  he  was  nineteen,  he  was  earning  only  twenty 
shillings  a  week,  but  he  was  happy.  His  painting  went  well, 
and  life  went  well  enough.  On  the  Good  Friday  he  organized 
a  walk  to  the  Hemlock  Stone.  There  were  three  lads  of  his 
own  age,  then  Annie  and  Arthur,  Miriam  and  Geoffrey. 
Arthur,  apprenticed  as  an  electrician  in  Nottingham,  was 
home  for  the  holiday.  Morel,  as  usual,  was  up  early,  whistling 
and  sawing  in  the  yard.  At  seven  o'clock  the  family  heard 
him  buy  threepennyworth  of  hot-cross  buns;  he  talked  with 
gusto  to  the  little  girl  who  brought  them,  calling  her  "my 
darling."  He  turned  away  several  boys  who  came  with 
more  buns,  telling  them  they  had  been  "kested"  by  a  little 
lass.  Then  Mrs.  Morel  got  up,  and  the  family  straggled  down. 
It  was  an  immense  luxury  to  everybody,  this  lying  in  bed 
just  beyond  the  ordinary  time  on  a  weekday.  And  Paul 
and  Arthur  read  before  breakfast,  and  had  the  meal 
unwashed,  sitting  in  their  shirt-sleeves.  This  was  another 
holiday  luxury.  The  room  was  warm.  Everything  felt  free 
of  care  and  anxiety.  There  was  a  sense  of  plenty  in  the 
house. 

While  the  boys  were  reading,  Mrs.  Morel  went  into  the 
garden.  They  were  now  in  another  house,  an  old  one,  near 
the  Scargill  Street  home,  which  had  been  left  soon  after 
William  had  died.  Directly  came  an  excited  cry  from  the 
garden: 

"Paul,  Paul!  come  and  look!" 

It  was  his  mother's  voice.  He  threw  down  his  book  and 
went  out.  There  was  a  long  garden  that  ran  to  a  field.  It 
was  a  grey,  cold  day,  with  a  sharp  wind  blowing  out  of 
Derbyshire.  Two  fields  away  Bestwood  began,  with  a  jumble 
of  roofs  and  red  house-ends,  out  of  which  rose  the  church 
tower  and  the  spire  of  the  Congregational  chapel.  And 
beyond  went  woods  and  hills,  right  away  to  the  pale  grey 
heights  of  the  Pennine  Chain. 

Paul  looked  down  the  garden  for  his  mother.  Her  head 
appeared  among  the  young  currant-bushes. 


(94  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Come  here!"  she  cried. 
"What  for?"  he  answered. 
"Come  and  see." 

She  had  been  looking  at  the  buds  on  the  currant-trees, 
Paul  went  up. 

"To  think,"  she  said,  "that  here  I  might  never  have  seen 
them!" 

Her  son  went  to  her  side.  Under  the  fence,  in  a  little  bed, 
was  a  ravel  of  poor  grassy  leaves,  such  as  come  from  very 
immature  bulbs,  and  three  scyllas  in  bloom.  Mrs.  Morel 
pointed  to  the  deep  blue  flowers. 

"Now,  just  see  those!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  was  looking  at 
the  currant-bushes,  when,  thinks  I  to  myself,  'There's  some- 
thing very  blue;  is  it  a  bit  of  sugar-bag?'  and  there,  behold 
you!  Sugar-bag!  Three  glories  of  the  snow,  and  such 
beauties!  But  where  on  earth  did  they  come  from?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Paul. 

"Well,  that's  a  marvel,  now!  I  thought  I  knew  every  weed 
and  blade  in  this  garden.  But  haven't  they  done  well?  You 
see,  that  gooseberry-bush  just  shelters  them.  Not  nipped, 
not  touched!" 

He  crouched  down  and  turned  up  the  bells  of  the  little 
blue  flowers. 

"They're  a  glorious  colour!"  he  said. 

"Aren't  they!"  she  cried.  "I  guess  they  come  from  Swit- 
zerland, where  they  say  they  have  such  lovely  things.  Fancy 
them  against  the  snow!  But  where  have  they  come  from? 
They  can't  have  blown  here,  can  they?" 

Then  he  remembered  having  set  here  a  lot  of  little  trash  of 
bulbs  to  mature. 

"And  you  never  told  me,"  she  said. 

"No;  I  thought  I'd  leave  it  till  they  might  flower." 

"And  now,  you  see!  I  might  have  missed  them.  And  I've 
never  had  a  glory  of  the  snow  in  my  garden  in  my  life." 

She  was  full  of  excitement  and  elation.  The  garden  was 
an  endless  joy  to  her.  Paul  was  thankful  for  her  sake  at  last 
to  be  in  a  house  with  a  long  garden  that  went  down  to  a 


r 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  1 95 

field.  Every  morning  after  breakfast  she  went  out  and  was 
happy  pottering  about  in  it.  And  it  was  true,  she  knew  every 
weed  and  blade. 

Everybody  turned  up  for  the  walk.  Food  was  packed, 
and  they  set  off,  a  merry,  delighted  party.  They  hung  over 
the  wall  of  the  mill-race,  dropped  paper  in  the  water  on  one 
side  the  tunnel  and  watched  it  shoot  out  on  the  other.  They 
stood  on  the  footbridge  over  Boathouse  Station  and  looked 
at  the  metals  gleaming  coldly. 

"You  should  see  the  Flying  Scotchman  come  through  at 
half-past  six!"  said  Leonard,  whose  father  was  a  signal-man. 
"Lad,  but  she  doesn't  half  buzz! "  and  the  little  party  looked 
up  the  lines  one  way,  to  London,  and  the  other  way,  to 
Scotland,  and  they  felt  the  touch  of  these  two  magical 
places. 

In  Ilkeston  the  colliers  were  waiting  in  gangs  for  the 
public-houses  to  open.  It  was  a  town  of  idleness  and  loung- 
ing. At  Stanton  Gate  the  iron  foundry  blazed.  Over  every- 
thing there  were  great  discussions.  At  Trowell  they  crossed 
again  from  Derbyshire  into  Nottinghamshire.  They  came 
to  the  Hemlock  at  dinner-time.  Its  field  was  crowded  with 
folk  from  Nottingham  and  Ilkeston. 

They  had  expected  a  venerable  and  dignified  monument. 
They  found  a  little,  gnarled,  twisted  stump  of  rock,  some- 
thing like  a  decayed  mushroom,  standing  out  pathetically 
on  the  side  of  a  field.  Leonard  and  Dick  immediately  pro- 
ceeded to  carve  their  initials,  "L.  W."  and  "R.  P.,"  in  the 
old  red  sandstone;  but  Paul  desisted,  because  he  had  read  in 
tHe  newspaper  satirical  remarks  about  initial-carvers,  who 
could  find  no  other  road  to  immortality.  Then  all  the  lads 
climbed  to  the  top  of  the  rock  to  look  round. 

Everywhere  in  the  field  below,  factory  girls  and  lads  were 
eating  lunch  or  sporting  about.  Beyond  was  the  garden  of 
an  old  manor.  It  had  yew-hedges  and  thick  clumps  and 
borders  of  yellow  crocuses  round  the  lawn. 

"See,"  said  Paul  to  Miriam,  "what  a  quiet  garden!" 

She  saw  the  dark  yews  and  the  golden  crocuses,  then  she 


l<)6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

looked  at  him  gratefully.  He  had  not  seemed  to  belong  to 
her  among  all  these  others;  he  was  different  then— not  her 
Paul,  who  understood  the  slightest  quiver  of  her  innermost 
soul,  but  something  else,  speaking  another  language  than 
hers.  How  it  hurt  her,  and  deadened  her  very  perceptions. 
Only  when  he  came  right  back  to  her,  leaving  his  other,  his 
lesser  self,  as  she  thought,  would  she  feel  alive  again.  And 
now  he  asked  her  to  look  at  this  garden,  wanting  the  con- 
tact with  her  again.  Impatient  of  the  set  in  the  field,  she 
turned  to  the  quiet  lawn,  surrounded  by  sheaves  of  shut-up 
crocuses.  A  feeling  of  stillness,  almost  of  ecstasy,  came 
over  her.  It  felt  almost  as  if  she  were  alone  with  him  in  this 
garden. 

Then  he  left  her  again  and  joined  the  others.  Soon  they 
started  home.  Miriam  loitered  behind,  alone.  She  did  not 
fit  in  with  the  others;  she  could  very  rarely  get  into  human 
relations  with  anyone:  so  her  friend,  her  companion,  her 
lover,  was  Nature.  She  saw  the  sun  declining  wanly.  In  the 
dusky,  cold  hedgerows  were  some  red  leaves.  She  lingered 
to  gather  them,  tenderly,  passionately.  The  love  in  her 
finger-tips  caressed  the  leaves;  the  passion  in  her  heart  came 
to  a  glow  upon  the  leaves. 

Suddenly  she  realized  she  was  alone  in  a  strange  road,  and 
she  hurried  forward.  Turning  a  corner  in  the  lane,  she  came 
upon  Paul,  who  stood  bent  over  something,  his  mind  fixed 
on  it,  working  away  steadily,  patiently,  a  little  hopelessly. 
She  hesitated  in  her  approach,  to  watch. 

He  remained  concentrated  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
Beyond,  one  rift  of  rich  gold  in  that  colourless  grey  evening 
seemed  to  make  him  stand  out  in  dark  relief.  She  saw  him, 
slender  and  firm,  as  if  the  setting  sun  had  given  him  to  her. 
A  deep  pain  took  hold  of  her,  and  she  knew  she  must  love 
him.  And  she  had  discovered  him,  discovered  in  him  a  rare 
potentiality,  discovered  his  loneliness.  Quivering  as  at  some 
"annunciation,"  she  went  slowly  forward. 

At  last  he  looked  up. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed  gratefully,  "have  you  waited  for 
me!" 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  197 

She  saw  a  deep  shadow  in  his  eyes. 
"What  was  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  spring  broken  here" ;  and  he  showed  her  where  his 
umbrella  was  injured. 

Instantly,  with  some  shame,  she  knew  he  had  not  done 
the  damage  himself,  but  that  Geoffrey  was  responsible. 

"It  is  only  an  old  umbrella,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

She  wondered  why  he,  who  did  not  usually  trouble  over 
trifles,  made  such  a  mountain  of  this  molehill. 

"But  it  was  William's,  an'  my  mother  can't  help  but 
know,"  he  said  quietly,  still  patiently  working  at  the  um- 
brella. 

The  words  went  through  Miriam  like  a  blade.  This,  then, 
was  the  confirmation  of  her  vision  of  him!  She  looked  at 
him.  But  there  was  about  him  a  certain  reserve,  and  she 
dared  not  comfort  him,  not  even  speak  softly  to  him. 

"Come  on,"  he  said.  "I  can't  do  it";  and  they  went  in 
silence  along  the  road. 

That  same  evening  they  were  walking  along  under  the 
trees  by  Nether  Green.  He  was  talking  to  her  fretfully, 
seemed  to  be  struggling  to  convince  himself.  • 

"You  know,"  he  said,  with  an  effort,  "if  one  person  loves, 
the  other  does." 

"Ah ! "  she  answered.  "Like  mother  said  to  me  when  I  was 
little,  'Love  begets  love.'  " 

"Yes,  something  like  that,  I  think  it  must  be." 

"I  hope  so,  because,  if  it  were  not,  love  might  be  a  very 
terrible  thing,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  but  it  is — at  least  with  most  people,"  he  answered. 

And  Miriam,  thinking  he  had  assured  himself,  felt  strong 
in  herself.  She  always  regarded  that  sudden  coming  upon 
him  in  the  lane  as  a  revelation.  And  this  conversation 
remained  graven  in  her  mind  as  one  of  the  letters  of  the 
law. 

Now  she  stood  with  him  and  for  him.  When,  about  this 
time,  he  outraged  the  family  feeling  at  Willey  Farm  by  some 
overbearing  insult,  she  stuck  to  him,  and  believed  he  was 
right.  And  at  this  time  she  dreamed  dreams  of  him,  vivid,  un- 


198  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

forgettable.  These  dreams  came  again  later  on,  developed  to 
a  more  subtle  psychological  stage. 

On  the  Easter  Monday  the  same  party  took  an  excursion 
to  Wingfield  Manor.  It  was  great  excitement  to  Miriam  to 
catch  a  train  at  Sethley  Bridge,  amid  all  the  bustle  of  the 
Bank  Holiday  crowd.  They  left  the  train  at  Alfreton.  Paul 
was  interested  in  the  street  and  in  the  colliers  with  their 
dogs.  Here  was  a  new  race  of  miners.  Miriam  did  not  live 
till  they  came  to  the  church.  They  were  all  rather  timid  of 
entering,  with  their  bags  of  food,  for  fear  of  being  turned 
out.  Leonard,  a  comic,  thin  fellow,  went  first;  Paul,  who 
would  have  died  rather  than  be  sent  back,  went  last.  The 
place  was  decorated  for  Easter.  In  the  font  hundreds  of 
white  narcissi  seemed  to  be  growing.  The  air  was  dim  and 
coloured  from  the  windows,  and  thrilled  with  a  subtle  scent 
of  lilies  and  narcissi.  In  that  atmosphere  Miriam's  soul  came 
into  a  glow.  Paul  was  afraid  of  the  things  he  mustn't  do;  and 
he  was  sensitive  to  the  feel  of  the  place.  Miriam  turned  to 
him.  He  answered.  They  were  together.  He  would  not  go 
beyond  the  Communion-rail.  She  loved  him  for  that.  Her 
soul  expanded  into  prayer  beside  him.  He  felt  the  strange 
fascination  of  shadowy  religious  places.  All  his  latent 
mysticism  quivered  into  life.  She  was  drawn  to  him.  He 
was  a  prayer  along  with  her. 

Miriam  very  rarely  talked  to  the  other  lads.  They  at  once 
became  awkward  in  conversation  with  her.  So  usually  she 
was  silent. 

It  was  past  midday  when  they  climbed  the  steep  path 
to  the  manor.  All  things  shone  softly  in  the  sun,  which  was 
wonderfully  warm  and  enlivening.  Celandines  and  violets 
were  out.  Everybody  was  tip-top  full  with  happiness.  The 
glitter  of  the  ivy,  the  soft,  atmospheric  grey  of  the 
Castle  walls,  the  gentleness  of  everything  near  the  ruin,  was 
perfect. 

The  manor  is  of  hard,  pale  grey  stone,  and  the  outer  walls 
are  blank  and  calm.  The  young  folk  were  in  raptures.  They 
went  in  trepidation,  almost  afraid  that  the  delight  of  explor- 
ing this  ruin  might  be  denied  them.  In  the  first  courtyard, 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  1 99 

within  the  high  broken  walls,  were  farm-carts,  with  their 
shafts  lying  idle  on  the  ground,  the  tires  of  the  wheels 
brilliant  with  gold-red  rust.  It  was  very  still. 

All  eagerly  paid  their  sixpences,  and  went  timidly  through 
the  fine  clean  arch  of  the  inner  courtyard.  They  were  shy. 
Here  on  the  pavement,  where  the  hall  had  been,  an  old 
thorn-tree  was  budding.  All  kinds  of  strange  openings  and 
broken  rooms  were  in  the  shadow  around  them. 

After  lunch  they  set  off  once  more  to  explore  the  ruin. 
This  time  the  girls  went  with  the  boys,  who  could  act  as 
guides  and  expositors.  There  was  one  tall  tower  in  a  corner, 
rather  tottering,  where  they  say  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  was 
imprisoned. 

"Think  of  the  Queen  going  up  here!"  said  Miriam  in  a 
low  voice,  as  she  climbed  the  hollow  stairs. 

"If  she  could  get  up,"  said  Paul,  "for  she  had  rheumatism 
like  anything.  I  reckon  they  treated  her  rottenly." 

"You  don't  think  she  deserved  it?"  asked  Miriam. 

"No,  I  don't.  She  was  only  lively." 

They  continued  to  mount  the  winding  staircase.  A  high 
wind,  blowing  through  the  loopholes,  went  rushing  up  the 
shaft,  and  filled  the  girl's  skirts  like  a  balloon,  so  that  she  was 
ashamed,  until  he  took  the  hem  of  her  dress  and  held  it  down 
for  her.  He  did  it  perfectly  simply,  as  he  would  have  picked 
up  her  glove.  She  remembered  this  always. 

Round  the  broken  top  of  the  tower  the  ivy  bushed  out, 
old  and  handsome.  Also,  there  were  a  few  chill  gillivers,  in 
pale  cold  bud.  Miriam  wanted  to  lean  over  for  some  ivy,  but 
he  would  not  let  her.  Instead,  she  had  to  wait  behind  him, 
and  take  from  him  each  spray  as  he  gathered  it  and  held  it 
to  her,  each  one  separately,  in  the  purest  manner  of  chivalry. 
The  tower  seemed  to  rock  in  the  wind.  They  looked  over 
miles  and  miles  of  wooded  country,  and  country  with  gleams 
of  pasture. 

The  crypt  underneath  the  manor  was  beautiful,  and  in 
perfect  preservation.  Paul  made  a  drawing:  Miriam  stayed 
with  him.  She  was  thinking  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  look- 
ing with  her  strained,  hopeless  eyes,  that  could  not  under- 


200  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

stand  misery,  over  the  hills  whence  no  help  came,  or  sitting 
in  this  crypt,  being  told  of  a  God  as  cold  as  the  place  she 
sat  in. 

They  set  off  again  gaily,  looking  round  on  their  beloved 
manor  that  stood  so  clean  and  big  on  its  hill. 

"Supposing  you  could  have  that  farm,"  said  Paul  to 
Miriam. 

"Yes!" 

"Wouldn't  it  be  lovely  to  come  and  see  you!" 

They  were  now  in  the  bare  country  of  stone  walls,  which 
he  loved,  and  which,  though  only  ten  miles  from  home, 
seemed  so  foreign  to  Miriam.  The  party  was  straggling.  As 
they  were  crossing  a  large  meadow  that  sloped  away  from 
the  sun,  along  a  path  embedded  with  innumerable  tiny  glit- 
tering points,  Paul,  walking  alongside,  laced  his  fingers  in 
the  strings  of  the  bag  Miriam  was  carrying,  and  instantly 
she  felt  Annie  behind^  watchful  and  jealous.  But  the  meadow 
was  bathed  in  a  glory  of  sunshine,  and  the  path  was  jewelled, 
and  it  was  seldom  that  he  gave  her  any  sign.  She  held  her 
fingers  very  still  among  the  strings  of  the  bag.  his  fingers 
touching;  and  the  place  was  golden  as  a  vision. 

At  last  they  came  into  the  straggling  grey  village  of  Crich, 
that  lies  high.  Beyond  the  village  was  the  famous  Crich  Stand 
that  Paul  could  see  from  the  garden  at  home.  The  party 
pushed  on.  Great  expanse  of  country  spread  around  and 
below.  The  lads  were  eager  to  get  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  It 
was  capped  by  a  round  knoll,  half  of  which  was  by  now  cut 
away,  and  on  the  top  of  which  stood  an  ancient  monument, 
sturdy  and  squat,  for  signalling  in  old  days  far  down  into 
the  level  lands  of  Nottinghamshire  and  Leicestershire. 

It  was  blowing  so  hard,  high  up  there  in  the  exposed  place, 
that  the  only  way  to  be  safe  was  to  stand  nailed  by  the  wind 
to  the  wall  of  the  tower.  At  their  feet  fell  the  precipice 
where  the  limestone  was  quarried  away.  Below  was  a  jumble 
of  hills  and  tiny  villages— Matlock,  Ambergate,  Stoney  Mid- 
dleton.  The  lads  were  eager  to  spy  out  the  church  of  Best- 
wood,  far  away  among  the  rather  crowded  country  on  the 
left.  They  were  disgusted  that  it  seemed  to  stand  on  a  plain. 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE 


201 


They  saw  the  hills  of  Derbyshire  fall  into  the  monotony  of 
the  Midlands  that  swept  away  South. 

Miriam  was  somewhat  scared  by  the  wind,  but  the  lads 
enjoyed  it.  They  went  on,  miles  and  miles,  to  Whatstand- 
well.  All  the  food  was  eaten,  everybody  was  hungry,  and 
there  was  very  little  money  to  get  home  with.  But  they 
managed  to  procure  a  loaf  and  a  currant-loaf,  which  they  \ 
hacked  into  pieces  with  shut-knives,  and  ate  sitting  on  the 
wall  near  the  bridge,  watching  the  bright  Derwent  rushing 
by,  and  the  brakes  from  Matlock  pulling  up  at  the  inn. 

Paul  was  now  pale  with  weariness.  Fie  had  been  respon- 
sible for  the  party  all  day,  and  now  he  was  done.  Miriam 
understood,  and  kept  close  to  him,  and  he  left  himself  in 
her  hands. 

They  had  an  hour  to  wait  at  Ambergate  Station.  Trains 
came,  crowded  with  excursionists  returning  to  Manchester, 
Birmingham,  and  London. 

"We  might  be  going  there— folk  easily  might  think  we're 
going  that  far,"  said  Paul. 

They  got  back  rather  late.  Miriam,  walking  home  with 
Geoffrey,  watched  the  moon  rise  big  and  red  and  misty. 
She  felt  something  was  fulfilled  in  her. 

She  had  an  elder  sister,  Agatha,  who  was  a  school-teacher. 
Between  the  two  girls  was  a  feud.  Miriam  considered  Agatha 
worldly.  And  she  wanted  herself  to  be  a  school-teacher. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  Agatha  and  Miriam  were  upstairs 
dressing.  Their  bedroom  was  over  the  stable.  It  was  a  low 
room,  not  very  large,  and  bare.  Miriam  had  nailed  on  the 
wall  a  reproduction  of  Veronese's  "St.  Catherine."  She  loved 
the  woman  who  sat  in  the  window,  dreaming.  Her  own 
windows  were  too  small  to  sit  in.  But  the  front  one  was 
dripped  over  with  honeysuckle  and  Virginia  creeper,  and 
looked  upon  the  tree-tops  of  the  oak-wood  across  the  yard, 
while  the  little  back  window,  no  bigger  than  a  handkerchief, 
was  a  loophole  to  the  east,  to  the  dawn  beating  up  against 
the  beloved  round  hills. 

The  two  sisters  did  not  talk  much  to  each  other.  Agatha, 
who  was  fair  and  small  and  determined,  had  rebelled  against 


202 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


the  home  atmosphere,  against  the  doctrine  of  "the  other 
cheek."  She  was  out  in  the  world  now,  in  a  fair  way  to  be 
independent.  And  she  insisted  on  worldly  values,  on  ap- 
pearance, on  manners,  on  position,  which  Miriam  would  fain 
have  ignored. 

Both  girls  liked  to  be  upstairs,  out  of  the  way,  when  Paul 
came.  They  preferred  to  come  running  down,  open  the 
stairfoot  door,  and  see  him  watching,  expectant  of  them. 
Miriam  stood  painfully  pulling  over  her  head  a  rosary  he 
had  given  her.  It  caught  in  the  fine  mesh  of  her  hair.  But 
at  last  she  had  it  on,  and  the  red-brown  wooden  beads 
looked  well  against  her  cool  brown  neck.  She  was  a  well- 
developed  girl,  and  very  handsome.  But  in  the  little  looking- 
glass  nailed  against  the  whitewashed  wall  she  could  only  see 
a  fragment  of  herself  at  a  time.  Agatha  had  bought  a  little 
mirror  of  her  own,  which  she  propped  up  to  suit  herself. 
Miriam  was  near  the  window.  Suddenly  she  heard  the  well- 
known  click  of  the  chain,  and  she  saw  Paul  fling  open  the 
gate,  push  his  bicycle  into  the  yard.  She  saw  him  look  at  the 
house,  and  she  shrank  away.  He  walked  in  a  nonchalant 
fashion,  and  his  bicycle  went  with  him  as  if  it  were  a  live 
thing. 

"Paul's  come!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Aren't  you  glad?"  said  Agatha  cuttingly. 
Miriam  stood  still  in  amazement  and  bewilderment. 
"Well,  aren't  you?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  but  I'm  not  going  to  let  him  see  it,  and  think  I 
Wanted  him." 

Miriam  was  startled.  She  heard  him  putting  his  bicycle 
in  the  stable  underneath,  and  talking  to  Jimmy,  who  had 
been  a  pit-horse,  and  who  was  seedy. 

"Well,  Jimmy  my  lad,  how  are  ter?  Nobbut  sick  an'  sadly, 
Uke?  Why,  then,  it's  a  shame,  my  owd  lad." 

She  heard  the  rope  run  through  the  hole  as  the  horse  lifted 
its  head  from  the  lad's  caress.  How  she  loved  to  listen  when 
he  thought  only  the  horse  could  hear.  But  there  was  a  ser- 
pent in  her  Eden.  She  searched  earnestly  in  herself  to  see  if 
she  wanted  Paul  Morel.  She  felt  there  would  be  some  dis- 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  203 

grace  in  it.  Full  of  twisted  feeling,  she  was  afraid  she  did 
want  him.  She  stood  self-convicted.  Then  came  an  agony 
of  new  shame.  She  shrank  within  herself  in  a  coil  of  torture. 
Did  she  want  Paul  Morel,  and  did  he  know  she  wanted  him? 
What  a  subtle  infamy  upon  her!  She  felt  as  if  her  whole  soul 
coiled  into  knots  of  shame. 

Agatha  was  dressed  first,  and  ran  downstairs.  Miriam 
heard  her  greet  the  lad  gaily,  knew  exactly  how  brilliant  her 
grey  eyes  became  with  that  tone.  She  herself  would  have 
felt  it  bold  to  have  greeted  him  in  such  wise.  Yet  there  she 
stood  under  the  self-accusation  of  wanting  him,  tied  to  that 
stake  of  torture.  In  bitter  perplexity  she  kneeled  down  and 
prayed: 

"O  Lord,  let  me  not  love  Paul  Morel.  Keep  me  from 
loving  him,  if  I  ought  not  to  love  him." 

Something  anomalous  in  the  prayer  arrested  her.  She 
lifted  her  head  and  pondered.  How  could  it  be  wrong  to 
love  him?  Love  was  God's  gift.  And  yet  it  caused  her 
shame.  That  was  because  of  him,  Paul  Morel.  But,  then,  it 
was  not  his  affair,  it  was  her  own,  between  herself  and  God. 
She  was  to  be  a  sacrifice.  But  it  was  God's  sacrifice,  not 
Paul  Morel's  or  her  own.  After  a  few  minutes  she  hid  her 
face  in  the  pillow  again,  and  said: 

"But,  Lord,  if  it  is  Thy  will  that  I  should  love  him,  make 
me  love  him— as  Christ  would,  who  died  for  the  souls  of 
men.  Make  me  love  him  splendidly,  because  he  is  Thy  son." 

She  remained  kneeling  for  some  time,  quite  still,  and 
deeply  moved,  her  black  hair  against  the  red  squares  and 
the  lavender-sprigged  squares  of  the  patchwork-quilt.  Prayer 
was  almost  essential  to  her.  Then  she  fell  into  that  rapture 
of  self-sacrifice,  identifying  herself  with  a  God  who  was 
sacrificed,  which  gives  to  so  many  human  souls  their  deep- 
est bliss. 

When  she  went  downstairs  Paul  was  lying  back  in  an 
arm-chair,  holding  forth  with  much  vehemence  to  Agatha* 
who  was  scorning  a  little  painting  he  had  brought  to  show 
her.  Miriam  glanced  at  the  two,  and  avoided  their  levity. 
She  went  into  the  parlour  to  be  alone. 


*04  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

It  was  teatime  before  she  was  able  to  speak  to  Paul,  and 
then  her  manner  was  so  distant  he  thought  he  had  offended 
her. 

Miriam  discontinued  her  practice  of  going  each  Thursday 
evening  to  the  library  in  Bestwood.  After  calling  for  Paul 
regularly  during  the  whole  spring,  a  number  of  trifling 
incidents  and  tiny  insults  from  his  family  awakened  her  to 
their  attitude  towards  her,  and  she  decided  to  go  no  more. 
So  she  announced  to  Paul  one  evening  she  would  not  call 
at  his  house  again  for  him  on  Thursday  nights. 

"Why?"  he  asked,  very  short. 

"Nothing.  Only  I'd  rather  not." 

"Very  well." 

"But,"  she  faltered,  "if  you'd  care  to  meet  me,  we  could 
still  go  together." 
"Meet  you  where?" 
"Somewhere— where  you  like." 

"I  shan't  meet  you  anywhere.  I  don't  see  why  you 
shouldn't  keep  calling  for  me.  But  if  you  won't,  I  don't 
Want  to  meet  you." 

So  the  Thursday  evenings  which  had  been  so  precious 
to  her,  and  to  him,  were  dropped.  He  worked  instead.  Mrs. 
Morel  sniffed  with  satisfaction  at  this  arrangement. 

He  would  not  have  it  that  they  were  lovers.  The  intimacy 
between  them  had  been  kept  so  abstract,  such  a  matter  of 
the  soul,  all  thought  and  weary  struggle  into  consciousness, 
that  he  saw  it  only  as  a  platonic  friendship.  He  stoutly 
denied  there  was  anything  else  between  them.  Miriam  was 
silent,  or  else  she  very  quietly  agreed.  He  was  a  fool  who 
did  not  know  what  was  happening  to  himself.  By  tacit 
agreement  they  ignored  the  remarks  and  insinuations  of  their 
acquaintances. 

"We  aren't  lovers,  we  are  friends,"  he  said  to  her.  "We 
know  it.  Let  them  talk.  What  does  it  matter  what  they  say?" 

Sometimes,  as  they  were  walking  together,  she  slipped 
her  arm  timidly  into  his.  But  he  always  resented  it,  and  she 
knew  it.  It  caused  a  violent  conflict  in  him.  With  Miriam 
he  was  always  on  the  high  plane  of  abstraction,  when  his 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  20$ 

natural  fire  of  love  was  transmitted  into  the  fine  stream  of 
thought.  She  would  have  it  so.  If  he  were  jolly  and,  as  she 
put  it,  flippant,  she  waited  till  he  came  back  to  her,  till  the 
change  had  taken  place  in  him  again,  and  he  was  wrestling 
with  his  own  soul,  frowning,  passionate  in  his  desire  for 
understanding.  And  in  this  passion  for  understanding  her 
soul  lay  close  to  his;  she  had  him  all  to  herself.  But  he  must 
be  made  abstract  first. 

Then,  if  she  put  her  arm  in  his,  it  caused  him  almost  tor- 
ture. His  consciousness  seemed  to  split.  The  place  where 
she  was  touching  him  ran  hot  with  friction.  He  was  one  in- 
ternecine battle,  and  he  became  cruel  to  her  because  of  it. 

One  evening  in  midsummer  Miriam  called  at  the  house, 
warm  from  climbing.  Paul  was  alone  in  the  kitchen;  his 
mother  could  be  heard  moving  about  upstairs. 

"Come  and  look  at  the  sweet-peas,"  he  said  to  the  girl. 

They  went  into  the  garden.  The  sky  behind  the  townlet 
and  the  church  was  orange-red;  the  flower-garden  was 
flooded  with  a  strange  warm  light  that  lifted  every  leaf  into 
significance.  Paul  passed  along  a  fine  row  of  sweet-peas, 
gathering  a  blossom  here  and  there,  all  cream  and  pale  blue, 
Miriam  followed,  breathing  the  fragrance.  To  her,  flowers 
appealed  with  such  strength  she  felt  she  must  make  them 
part  of  herself.  When  she  bent  and  breathed  a  flower,  it  was 
as  if  she  and  the  flower  were  loving  each  other.  Paul  hated 
her  for  it.  There  seemed  a  sort  of  exposure  about  the  actionf 
something  too  intimate. 

>  When  he  had  got  a  fair  bunch,  they  returned  to  the 
house.  He  listened  for  a  moment  to  his  mother's  quiet  move- 
ments upstairs,  then  he  said: 

"Gome  here,  and  let  me  pin  them  in  for  you."  He  arranged 
them  two  or  three  at  a  time  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  step- 
ping back  now  and  then  to  see  the  effect,  "You  know,"  he 
<;aid,  taking  the  pin  out  of  his  mouth,  "a  woman  ought 
always  to  arrange  her  flowers  before  her  glass." 

Miriam  laughed.  She  thought  flowers  ought  to  be  pinned 
tn  one's  dress  without  any  care.  That  Paul  should  take  pains 
to  fix  her  flowers  for  her  was  his  whim. 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


He  was  rather  offended  at  her  laughter. 

"Some  women  do— those  who  look  decent,"  he  said. 

Miriam  laughed  again,  but  mirthlessly,  to  hear  him  thus 
mix  her  up  with  women  in  a  general  way.  From  most  men 
she  would  have  ignored  it.  But  from  him  it  hurt  her. 

He  had  nearly  finished  arranging  the  flowers  when  he 
heard  his  mother's  footstep  on  the  stairs.  Hurriedly  he 
pushed  in  the  last  pin  and  turned  away. 

"Don't  let  mater  know,"  he  said. 

Miriam  picked  up  her  books  and  stood  in  the  doorway 
looking  with  chagrin  at  the  beautiful  sunset.  She  would 
call  for  Paul  no  more,  she  said. 

"Good-evening,  Mrs.  Morel,"  she  said,  in  a  deferential 
way.  She  sounded  as  if  she  felt  she  had  no  right  to  be  there. 

"Oh,  is  it  you,  Miriam?"  replied  Mrs.  Morel  coolly. 

But  Paul  insisted  on  everybody's  accepting  his  friendship 
with  the  girl,  and  Mrs.  Morel  was  too  wise  to  have  any  open 
rupture. 

It  was  not  till  he  was  twenty  years  old  that  the  family 
could  ever  afford  to  go  away  for  a  holiday.  Mrs.  Morel  had 
never  been  away  for  a  holiday,  except  to  see  her  sister,  since 
she  had  been  married.  Now  at  last  Paul  had  saved  enough 
money,  and  they  were  all  going.  There  was  to  be  a  party: 
some  of  Annie's  friends,  one  friend  of  Paul's,  a  young  man 
in  the  same  office  where  William  had  previously  been,  and 
Miriam. 

It  was  great  excitement  writing  for  rooms.  Paul  and  his 
mother  debated  it  endlessly  between  them.  They  wanted  a 
furnished  cottage  for  two  weeks.  She  thought  one  week 
would  be  enough,  but  he  insisted  on  two. 

At  last  they  got  an  answer  from  Mablethorpe,  a  cottage 
such  as  they  wished  for  thirty  shillings  a  week.  There  was 
immense  jubilation.  Paul  was  wild  with  joy  for  his  mother's 
sake.  She  would  have  a  real  holiday  now.  He  and  she  sat  at 
evening  picturing  what  it  would  be  like.  Annie  came  in,  and 
Leonard,  and  Alice,  and  Kitty.  There  was  wild  rejoicing  and 
anticipation.  Paul  told  Miriam.  She  seemed  to  brood  with 
joy  over  it.  But  the  Morels'  house  rang  with  excitement. 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  20J 

They  were  to  go  on  Saturday  morning  by  the  seven  train. 
Paul  suggested  that  Miriam  should  sleep  at  his  house,  because 
it  was  so  far  for  her  to  walk.  She  came  down  for  supper. 
Everybody  was  so  excited  that  even  Miriam  was  accepted 
with  warmth.  But  almost  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  feeling 
in  the  family  became  close  and  tight.  He  had  discovered  a 
poem  by  Jean  Ingelow  which  mentioned  Mablethorpe,  and 
so  he  must  read  it  to  Miriam.  He  would  never  have  got  so 
far  in  the  direction  of  sentimentality  as  to  read  poetry  to  his 
own  family.  But  now  they  condescended  to  listen.  Miriam 
sat  on  the  sofa  absorbed  in  him.  She  always  seemed  absorbed 
in  him,  and  by  him,  when  he  was  present.  Mrs.  Morel  sat 
jealously  in  her  own  chair.  She  was  going  to  hear  also.  And 
even  Annie  and  the  father  attended,  Morel  with  his  head 
cocked  on  one  side,  like  somebody  listening  to  a  sermon 
and  feeling  conscious  of  the  fact.  Paul  ducked  his  head  over 
the  book.  He  had  got  now  all  the  audience  he  cared  for. 
And  Mrs.  Morel  and  Annie  almost  contested  with  Miriam 
who  should  listen  best  and  win  his  favour.  He  was  in  very 
high  feather. 

"But,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Morel,  "what  is  the  'Bride  of 
Enderby'  that  the  bells  are  supposed  to  ring?" 

"It's  an  old  tune  they  used  to  play  on  the  bells  for  a 
warning  against  water.  I  suppose  the  Bride  of  Enderby  was 
drowned  in  a  flood,"  he  replied.  He  had  not  the  faintest 
knowledge  what  it  really  was,  but  he  would  have  never  sunk 
so  low  as  to  confess  that  to  his  womenfolk.  They  listened 
and  believed  him.  He  believed  himself. 

"And  the  people  knew  what  that  tune  meant?"  said  his 
mother. 

"Yes—just  like  the  Scotch  when  they  heard  'The  Flowers 
o'  the  Forest'— and  when  they  used  to  ring  the  bells  back- 
ward for  alarm." 

"How?"  said  Annie.  "A  bell  sounds  the  same  whether  it's 
vung  backwards  or  forwards." 

"But,"  he  said,  "if  you  start  with  the  deep  bell  and  ring 
<ip  to  the  high  one— der— der— der— der— der— der— der— der! " 

He  ran  up  the  scale.  Everybody  thought  it  clever.  He, 


208 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


thought  so  too.  Then,  waiting  a  minute,  he  continued  the 

poem. 

"H'm!"  said  Mrs.  Morel  curiously,  when  he  finished.  "But 
I  wish  everything  that's  written  weren't  so  sad." 

?7  canna  see  what  they  want  drownin'  theirselves  for,"  said 
Morel. 

There  was  a  pause.  Annie  got  up  to  clear  the  table. 
Miriam  rose  to  help  with  the  pots. 
uLet  me  help  to  wash  up,"  she  said. 

"Certainly  not,"  cried  Annie.  "You  sit  down  again.  There 
aren't  many." 

And  Miriam,  who  could  not  be  familiar  and  insist,  sat 
down  again  to  look  at  the  book  with  Paul. 

He  was  master  of  the  party;  his  father  was  no  good.  And 
great  tortures  he  suffered  lest  the  tin  box  should  be  put  out 
at  Firsby  instead  of  at  Mablethorpe.  And  he  wasn't  equal  to 
getting  a  carriage.  His  bold  little  mother  did  that. 

"Here!"  she  cried  to  a  man.  "Here!" 

Paul  and  Annie  got  behind  the  rest,  convulsed  with 
yhamed  laughter. 

"How  much  will  it  be  to  drive  to  Brook  Cottage?"  said 
Mrs.  Morel. 

"Two  shillings." 

"Why,  how  far  is  it?" 

"A  good  way." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said. 

But  she  scrambled  in.  There  were  eight  crowded  in  one 
old  seaside  carriage. 

"You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "it's  only  threepence  each, 
and  if  it  were  a  tram-car  " 

They  drove  along.  Each  cottage  they  came  to,  Mrs. 
Morel  cried: 

"Is  it  this?  Now,  this  is  it!" 

Everybody  sat  breathless.  They  drove  past.  There  was  a 
universal  sigh. 

"I'm  thankful  it  wasn't  that  brute,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  **1 
ms  frightened."  They  drove  on  and  on. 
At  last  they  descended  at  a  house  that  stood  alone  over 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE  20g 

the  dyke  by  the  highroad.  There  was  wild  excitement  be- 
cause they  had  to  cross  a  little  bridge  to  get  into  the  front 
garden.  But  they  loved  the  house  that  lay  so  solitary,  with 
a  sea-meadow  on  one  side,  and  immense  expanse  of  land 
patched  in  white  barley,  yellow  oats,  red  wheat,  and  green 
root-crops,  flat  and  stretching  level  to  the  sky. 

Paul  kept  accounts.  He  and  his  mother  ran  the  show. 
The  total  expenses— lodging,  food,  everything— was  sixteen 
shillings  a  week  per  person.  He  and  Leonard  went  bathing 
in  the  morning.  Morel  was  wandering  abroad  quite  early. 

"You,  Paul,"  his  mother  called  from  the  bedroom,  "eat  a 
piece  of  bread-and-butter." 

"All  right,"  he  answered. 

And  when  he  got  back  he  saw  his  mother  presiding  in  state 
at  the  breakfast-table.  The  woman  of  the  house  was  young. 
Her  husband  was  blind,  and  she  did  laundry  work.  So  Mrs. 
Morel  always  washed  the  pots  in  the  kitchen  and  made  the 
beds. 

"But  you  said  you'd  have  a  real  holiday,"  said  Paul,  "and 
now  you  work." 

"Work!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  are  you  talking  about!" 

He  loved  to  go  with  her  across  the  fields  to  the  village 
and  the  sea.  She  was  afraid  of  the  plank  bridges,  and  he 
abused  her  for  being  a  baby.  On  the  whole  he  stuck  to  her  as 
if  he  were  her  man. 

Miriam  did  not  get  much  of  him,  except,  perhaps,  when 
all  the  others  went  to  the  "Coons."  Coons  were  insufferably 
stupid  to  Miriam,  so  he  thought  they  were  to  himself  also, 
and  he  preached  priggishly  to  Annie  about  the  fatuity  of 
listening  to  them.  Yet  he,  too,  knew  all  their  songs,  and  sang 
them  along  the  roads  roisterously.  And  if  he  found  himself 
listening,  the  stupidity  pleased  him  very  much.  Yet  to  Annie 
he  said: 

"Such  rot!  there  isn't  a  grain  of  intelligence  in  it.  Nobody 
with  more  gumption  than  a  grasshopper  could  go  and  sit  and 
listen."  And  to  Miriam  he  said,  with  much  scorn  of  Annie 
and  the  others:  "I  suppose  they're  at  the  'Coons.'  " 

It  was  queer  to  see  Miriam  singing  coon  songs.  She  had 


2IO 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


a  straight  chin  that  went  in  a  perpendicular  line  from  the 
lower  lip  to  the  turn.  She  always  reminded  Paul  of  some  sad 
Botticelli  angel  when  she  sang,  even  when  it  was: 

"Come  down  lover's  lane 
For  a  walk  with  me,  talk  with  me." 

Only  when  he  sketched,  or  at  evening  when  the  others 
were  at  the  "Coons,"  she  had  him  to  himself.  He  talked  to  her 
endlessly  about  his  love  of  horizontals:  how  they,  the  great 
kvels  of  sky  and  land  in  Lincolnshire,  meant  to  him  the  eter- 
nality  of  the  will,  just  as  the  bowed  Norman  arches  of  the 
church,  repeating  themselves,  meant  the  dogged  leaping  for- 
ward of  the  persistent  human  soul,  on  and  on,  nobody  knows 
where;  in  contradiction  to  the  perpendicular  lines  and  to  the 
Gothic  arch,  which,  he  said,  leapt  up  at  heaven  and  touched 
the  ecstasy  and  lost  itself  in  the  divine.  Himself,  he  said,  was 
Norman,  Miriam  was  Gothic.  She  bowed  in  consent  even  to 
that. 

One  evening  he  and  she  went  up  the  great  sweeping  shore 
of  sand  towards  Theddlethorpe.  The  long  breakers  plunged 
and  ran  in  a  hiss  of  foam  along  the  coast.  It  was  a  warm 
evening.  There  was  not  a  figure  but  themselves  on  the  far 
reaches  of  sand,  no  noise  but  the  sound  of  the  sea.  Paul 
loved  to  see  it  clanging  at  the  land.  He  loved  to  feel  himself 
between  the  noise  of  it  and  the  silence  of  the  sandy  shore. 
Miriam  was  with  him.  Everything  grew  very  intense.  It  was 
quite  dark  when  they  turned  again.  The  way  home  was 
through  a  gap  in  the  sand-hills,  and  then  along  a  raised  grass 
road  between  two  dykes.  The  country  was  black  and  still. 
From  behind  the  sandhills  came  the  whisper  of  the  sea.  Paul 
and  Miriam  walked  in  silence.  Suddenly  he  started.  The 
whole  of  his  blood  seemed  to  burst  into  flame,  and  he  could 
scarcely  breathe.  An  enormous  orange  moon  was  staring  at 
them  from  the  rim  of  the  sandhills.  He  stood  still,  looking 
at  it. 

"Ah!"  cried  Miriam,  when  she  saw  it. 
He  remained  perfectly  still,  staring  at  the  immense  and 
ruddy  moon,  the  only  thing  in  the  far-reaching  darkness  of 


LAD-AND-GIRL  LOVE 


211 


the  level.  His  heart  beat  heavily,  the  muscles  of  his  arms 
contracted. 

"What  is  it?"  murmured  Miriam,  waiting  for  him. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  She  stood  beside  him,  for 
ever  in  shadow.  Her  face,  covered  with  the  darkness  of 
her  hat,  was  watching  him  unseen.  But  she  was  brooding. 
She  was  slightly  afraid— deeply  moved  and  religious.  That 
was  her  best  state.  He  was  impotent  against  it.  His  blood 
was  concentrated  like  a  flame  in  his  chest.  But  he  could  not 
get  across  to  her.  There  were  flashes  in  his  blood.  But 
somehow  she  ignored  them.  She  was  expecting  some  reli- 
gious state  in  him.  Still  yearning,  she  was  half  aware  of  his 
passion,  and  gazed  at  him,  troubled. 

"What  is  it?"  she  murmured  again. 

"It's  the  moon,"  he  answered,  frowning. 

"Yes,"  she  assented.  "Isn't  it  wonderful?"  She  was  curious 
about  him.  The  crisis  was  past. 

He  did  not  know  himself  what  was  the  matter.  He  was 
naturally  so  young,  and  their  intimacy  was  so  abstract,  he 
did  not  know  he  wanted  to  crush  her  on  to  his  breast  to  ease 
the  ache  there.  He  was  afraid  of  her.  The  fact  that  he  might 
want  her  as  a  man  wants  a  woman  had  in  him  been  sup- 
pressed into  a  shame.  When  she  shrank  in  her  convulsed 
coiled  torture  from  the  thought  of  such  a  thing,  he  had 
winced  to  the  depths  of  his  soul.  And  now  this  "purity" 
prevented  even  their  first  love-kiss.  It  was  as  if  she  could 
scarcely  stand  the  shock  of  physical  love,  even  a  passion- 
ate kiss,  and  then  he  was  too  shrinking  and  sensitive  to 
give  it. 

As  they  walked  along  the  dark  fen-meadow  he  watched 
the  moon  and  did  not  speak.  She  plodded  beside  him.  He 
hated  her,  for  she  seemed  in  some  way  to  make  him  despise 
himself.  Looking  ahead— he  saw  the  one  light  in  the  darkness, 
the  window  of  their  lamp-lit  cottage. 

He  loved  to  think  of  his  mother,  and  the  other  jolly 
people. 

,  "Well,  everybody  else  has  been  in  long  ago!"  said  his 
mother  as  they  entered. 


212 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"What  does  that  matter!"  he  cried  irritably.  "I  can  go 
a  walk  if  I  like,  can't  I?" 

"And  I  should  have  thought  you  could  get  in  to  supper 
with  the  rest,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"I  shall  please  myself,"  he  retorted.  "It's  not  late.  I  shall 
do  as  I  like." 

"Very  well,"  said  his  mother  cuttingly,  "then  do  as  you 
like."  And  she  took  no  further  notice  of  him  that  evening. 
Which  he  pretended  neither  to  notice  nor  to  care  about, 
but  sat  reading.  Miriam  read  also,  obliterating  herself.  Mrs. 
Morel  hated  her  for  making  her  son  like  this.  She  watched 
Paul  growing  irritable,  priggish,  and  melancholic.  For  this 
she  put  the  blame  on  Miriam.  Annie  and  all  her  friends 
joined  against  the  girl.  Miriam  had  no  friend  of  her  own, 
only  Paul.  But  she  did  not  suffer  so  much,  because  she  de- 
spised the  triviality  of  these  other  people. 

And  Paul  hated  her  because,  somehow,  she  spoilt  his  ease 
and  naturalness.  And  he  writhed  himself  with  a  feeling  of 
humiliation. 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

CHAPTER  VIII 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE 


ARTHUR  finished  his  apprenticeship,  and  got  a  job  on 
h  the  electrical  plant  at  Minton  Pit.  He  earned  very  little, 
but  had  a  good  chance  of  getting  on.  But  he  was  wild  and 
restless.  He  did  not  drink  nor  gamble.  Yet  he  somehow 
contrived  to  get  into  endless  scrapes,  always  through  some 
hot-headed  thoughtlessness.  Either  he  went  rabbiting  in  the 
woods,  like  a  poacher,  or  he  stayed  in  Nottingham  all  night 
instead  of  coming  home,  or  he  miscalculated  his  dive  into 
the  canal  at  Bestwood,  and  scored  his  chest  into  one  mass  of 
wounds  on  the  raw  stones  and  tins  at  the  bottom. 

He  had  not  been  at  his  work  many  months  when  again 
he  did  not  come  home  at  night. 

"Do  you  know  where  Arthur  is?"  asked  Paul  at  breakfast. 
"I  do  not,"  replied  his  mother. 

"He  is  a  fool,"  said  Paul.  "And  if  he  did  anything  I 
shouldn't  mind.  But  no,  he  simply  can't  come  away  from  a 
game  of  whist,  or  else  he  must  see  a  girl  home  from  the 
skating-rink— quite  proprietously— and  so  can't  get  home. 
He's  a  fool." 

¥J  don't  know  that  it  would  make  it  any  better  if  he  did 
something  to  make  us  all  ashamed,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 
"Well,  /  should  respect  him  more,"  said  Paul. 
"I  very  much  doubt  it,"  said  his  mother  coldly. 
They  went  on  with  breakfast. 

"Are  you  fearfully  fond  of  him?"  Paul  asked  his  mother. 
"What  do  you  ask  that  for?" 

"Because  they  say  a  woman  always  likes  the  youngest 
best." 

"She  may  do— but  I  don't.  No,  he  wearies  me." 
"And  you'd  actually  rather  he  was  good?" 

213 


214  S0NS  AND  LOVERS 

"I'd  rather  he  showed  some  of  a  man's  common  sense." 

Paul  was  raw  and  irritable.  He  also  wearied  his  mother 
very  often.  She  saw  the  sunshine  going  out  of  him,  and 
she  resented  it. 

As  they  were  finishing  breakfast  came  the  postman  with  a 
letter  from  Derby.  Mrs.  Morel  screwed  up  her  eyes  to  look 
at  the  address. 

"Give  it  here,  blind  eye!"  exclaimed  her  son,  snatching 
it  away  from  her. 

She  started,  and  almost  boxed  his  ears. 
"It's  from  your  son  Arthur,"  he  said. 
"What  now—!"  cried  Mrs.  Morel. 

"  'My  dearest  Mother,'  "  Paul  read,  "  'I  don't  know  what 
made  me  such  a  fool.  I  want  you  to  come  and  fetch  me 
back  from  here.  I  came  with  Jack  Bredon  yesterday,  instead 
of  going  to  work,  and  enlisted.  He  said  he  was  sick  of  wear- 
ing the  seat  of  a  stool  out,  and,  like  the  idiot  you  know  I 
am,  I  came  away  with  him. 

"  'I  have  taken  the  King's  shilling,  but  perhaps  if  you  came 
for  me  they  would  let  me  go  back  with  you.  I  was  a  fool 
when  I  did  it.  I  don't  want  to  be  in  the  army.  My  dear 
mother,  I  am  nothing  but  a  trouble  to  you.  But  if  you  get 
me  out  of  this,  I  promise  I  will  have  more  sense  and  con- 
sideration. .  .  .' " 

Mrs.  Morel  sat  down  in  her  rocking-chair. 

"Well,  novo?  she  cried,  "let  him  stop!" 

"Yes,"  said  Paul,  "let  him  stop." 

There  was  silence.  The  mother  sat  with  her  hands  folded 
in  her  apron,  her  face  set,  thinking. 

"If  I'm  not  sick!"  she  cried  suddenly.  "Sick!" 

"Now,"  said  Paul,  beginning  to  frown,  "you're  not  going 
to  worry  your  soul  out  about  this,  do  you  hear?" 

"I  suppose  I'm  to  take  it  as  a  blessing,"  she  flashed,  turning 
on  her  son. 

"You're  not  going  to  mount  it  up  to  a  tragedy,  so  there," 
lie  retorted. 

"The  fool!— the  young  fool!"  she  cried. 

"He'll  look  well  in  uniform,"  said  Paul  irritatingly. 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  21  j 

His  mother  turned  on  him  like  a  fury. 

"Oh,  will  he!"  she  cried.  "Not  in  my  eyes!" 

"He  should  get  in  a  cavalry  regiment;  he'll  have  the  time 
of  his  life,  and  will  look  an  awful  swell." 

"Swell!—  swell!— a  mighty  swell  indeed!— a  common 
soldier!" 

"Well,"  said  Paul,  "what  am  I  but  a  common  clerk?" 
"A  good  deal,  my  boy!"  cried  his  mother,  stung. 
"What?" 

"At  any  rate,  a  man,  and  not  a  thing  in  a  red  coat." 

"I  shouldn't  mind  being  in  a  red  coat— or  dark  blue,  that 
would  suit  me  better— if  they  didn't  boss  me  about  too 
much." 

But  his  mother  had  ceased  to  listen. 

"Just  as  he  was  getting  on,  or  might  have  been  getting 
on,  at  his  job— a  young  nuisance— here  he  goes  and  ruins  him- 
self for  life.  What  good  will  he  be,  do  you  think,  after 
this?" 

"It  may  lick  him  into  shape  beautifully,"  said  Paul. 

"Lick  him  into  shape!— lick  what  marrow  there  was  out 
of  his  bones.  A  soldier!— and  a  common  soldier!— nothing 
but  a  body  that  makes  movements  when  it  hears  a  shout! 
It's  a  fine  thing!" 

"I  can't  understand  why  it  upsets  you,"  said  Paul. 

"No,  perhaps  you  can't.  But  /  understand";  and  she  sat 
back  in  her  chair,  her  chin  in  one  hand,  holding  her  elbow 
with  the  other,  brimmed  up  with  wrath  and  chagrin. 

"And  shall  you  go  to  Derby?"  asked  Paul. 

"Yes." 

"It's  no  good." 
"I'll  see  for  myself." 

"And  why  on  earth  don't  you  let  him  stop?  It's  just  what 
he  wants." 

"Of  course,"  cried  the  mother,  "you  know  what  he 
wants!" 

She  got  ready  and  went  by  the  first  tfain  to  Derby, 
where  she  saw  her  son  and  the  sergeant.  It  was,  however* 
no  good. 


216 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


When  Morel  was  having  his  dinner  in  the  evening,  she  said 
suddenly: 

"I've  had  to  go  to  Derby  today." 

The  miner  turned  up  his  eyes,  showing  the  whites  in  his 
black  face. 

"Has  ter,  lass?  What  took  thee  there?" 

"That  Arthur!" 

"Oh— an'  what's  agate  now?" 

"He's  only  enlisted." 

Morel  put  down  his  knife  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"Nay,"  he  said,  "that  he  niver  'as!" 

"And  is  going  down  to  Aldershot  tomorrow." 

"Well!"  exclaimed  the  miner.  "That's  a  winder."  He  con- 
sidered it  a  moment,  said  "H'm!"  and  proceeded  with  his 
dinner.  Suddenly  his  face  contracted  with  wrath.  "I  hope 
he  may  never  set  foot  i'  my  house  again,"  he  said. 

"The  idea!"  cried  Airs.  Morel.  "Saying  such  a  thing!" 

"I  do,"  repeated  Morel.  "A  fool  as  runs  away  for  a  soldier, 
let  'im  look  after  'issen;  I  s'll  do  no  more  for  'im." 

"A  fat  sight  you  have  done  as  it  is,"  she  said. 

And  Morel  was  almost  ashamed  to  go  to  his  public-house 
that  evening. 

"Well,  did  you  go?"  said  Paul  to  his  mother  when  he 
came  home. 
"I  did." 

"And  could  you  see  him?" 
"Yes." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  blubbered  when  I  came  away." 

"H'm!" 

"And  so  did  I,  so  you  needn't  'h'm'!" 

Mrs.  Morel  fretted  after  her  son.  She  knew  he  would  not 
like  the  army.  He  did  not.  The  discipline  was  intolerable 
to  him. 

"But  the  doctor,"  she  said  with  some  pride  to  Paul,  "said 
he  was  perfectly  proportioned— almost  exactly;  all  his  meas- 
urements were  correct.  He  is  good-looking,  you  know." 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  2  17 

"He's  awfully  nice-looking.  But  he  doesn't  fetch  the  girl? 
like  William,  does  he?" 

"No;  it's  a  different  character.  He's  a  good  deal  liks  lrx 
father,  irresponsible." 

To  console  his  mother,  Paul  did  not  go  much  to  Wille) 
Farm  at  this  time.  And  in  the  autumn  exhibition  of  stu  ient<> 
work  in  the  Castle  he  had  two  studies,  a  landscape  in  water* 
colour  and  a  still  life  in  oil,  both  of  which  had  fkst-priz| 
awards.  He  was  highly  excited. 

"What  do  you  think  I've  got  for  my  pictures,  mother?' 
he  asked,  coming  home  one  evening.  She  saw  by  his  eye 
he  was  glad.  Her  face  flushed. 

"Now,  how  should  I  know,  my  boy!" 

"A  first  prize  for  those  glass  jars  — " 

"H'm!" 

"And  a  first  prize  for  that  sketch  up  at  Willey  Farm." 

"Both  first?" 

"Yes." 

"H'm!" 

There  was  a  rosy,  bright  look  about  her,  though  she  said 
nothing. 

"It's  nice,"  he  said,  "isn't  it?" 
"It  is." 

"Why  don't  you  praise  me  up  to  the  skies?" 
She  laughed. 

"I  should  have  the  trouble  of  dragging  you  down  again," 
she  said. 

But  she  wras  full  of  joy,  nevertheless.  William  had  brought 
her  his  sporting  trophies.  She  kept  them  still,  and  she  did 
not  forgive  his  death.  Arthur  was  handsome— at  least,  a  good 
specimen— and  warm  and  generous,  and  probably  would  do 
well  in  the  end.  But  Paul  was  going  to  distinguish  himself. 
She  had  a  great  belief  in  him,  the  more  because  he  was  un- 
aware of  his  own  powers.  There  was  so  much  to  come  out 
of  him.  Life  for  her  was  rich  with  promise.  She  was  to  see 
herself  fulfilled.  Not  for  nothing  had  been  her  struggle. 

Several  times  during  the  exhibition  Mrs.  Morel  went  to 


218 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


the  Castle  unknown  to  Paul.  She  wandered  down  the  long 
room  looking  at  the  other  exhibits.  Yes,  they  were  good. 
But  they  had  not  in  them  a  certain  something  which  she 
demanded  for  her  satisfaction.  Some  made  her  jealous,  they 
were  so  good.  She  looked  at  them  a  long  time  trying  to  find 
fault  with  them.  Then  suddenly  she  had  a  shock  that  made 
her  heart  beat.  There  hung  Paul's  picture!  She  knew  it  as 
if  it  were  printed  on  her  heart. 
"Name— Paul  Morel-First  Prize." 

It  looked  so  strange,  there  in  public,  on  the  walls  of  the 
Castle  gallery,  where  in  her  lifetime  she  had  seen  so  many 
pictures.  And  she  glanced  round  to  see  if  anyone  had  noticed 
her  again  in  front  of  the  same  sketch. 

But  she  felt  a  proud  woman.  When  she  met  well-dressed 
ladies  going  home  to  the  Park,  she  thought  to  herself: 

"Yes,  you  look  very  well— but  I  wonder  if  your  son  has 
two  first  prizes  in  the  Castle." 

And  she  walked  on,  as  proud  a  little  woman  as  any  in 
Nottingham.  And  Paul  felt  he  had  done  something  for  her, 
if  only  a  trifle.  All  his  work  was  hers. 

One.  day,  as  he  was  going  up  Castle  Gate,  he  met  Miriam. 
He  had  seen  her  on  the  Sunday,  and  had  not  expected  to 
meet  her  in  town.  She  was  walking  with  a  rather  striking 
woman,  blonde,  with  a  sullen  expression,  and  a  defiant  car- 
riage. It  was  strange  how  Miriam,  in  her  bowed,  meditative 
bearing,  looked  dwarfed  beside  this  woman  with  the  hand- 
some shoulders.  Miriam  watched  Paul  searchingly.  His  gaze 
was  on  the  stranger,  who  ignored  him.  The  girl  saw  his 
masculine  spirit  rear  its  head. 

"Hello!"  he  said,  "you  didn't  tell  me  you  were  coming  to 
town." 

"No,"  replied  Miriam,  half  apologetically.  "I  drove  in  to 
Cattle  Market  with  father." 
He  looked  at  her  companion. 

"I've  told  you  about  Mrs.  Dawes,"  said  Miriam  huskily; 
she  was  nervous.  "Clara,  do  you  know  Paul?" 

"I  think  I've  seen  him  before,"  replied  Mrs.  Dawes  indif- 
ferently, as  she  shook  hands  with  him.  She  had  scornful  grey 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  219 

eyes,  a  skin  like  white  honey,  and  a  full  mouth,  with  a 
slightly  lifted  upper  lip  that  did  not  know  whether  it  was 
raised  in  scorn  of  all  men  or  out  of  eagerness  to  be  kissed, 
but  which  believed  the  former.  She  carried  her  head  back, 
as  if  she  had  drawn  away  in  contempt,  perhaps  from  men 
also.  She  wore  a  large,  dowdy  hat  of  black  beaver,  arid  a 
sort  of  slightly  affected  simple  dress  that  made  her  look 
rather  sack-like.  She  was  evidently  poor,  and  had  not  much 
taste.  Miriam  usually  looked  nice. 

"Where  have  you  seen  me?"  Paul  asked  of  the  woman, 
She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  would  not  trouble  to  answer. 
Then: 

"Walking  with  Louie  Travers,"  she  said. 
Louie  was  one  of  the  "spiral"  girls. 
"Why,  do  you  know  her?"  he  asked. 
She  did  not  answer.  He  turned  to  Miriam. 
"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 
"To  the  Castle." 

"What  train  are  you  going  home  by?" 

"I  am  driving  with  father.  I  wish  you  could  come  too. 
What  time  are  you  free?" 

"You  know  not  till  eight  tonight,  damn  it!" 

And  directly  the  two  women  moved  on. 

Paul  remembered  that  Clara  Dawes  was  the  daughter  of 
an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Leivers.  Miriam  had  sought  her  out 
because  she  had  once  been  spiral  overseer  at  Jordan's,  and 
because  her  husband,  Baxter  Dawes,  was  smith  for  the 
factory,  making  the  irons  for  cripple  instruments,  and  so 
on.  Through  her  Miriam  felt  she  got  into  direct  contact 
with  Jordan's,  and  could  estimate  better  Paul's  position.  But 
Mrs.  Dawes  was  separated  from  her  husband,  and  had  taken 
up  Women's  Rights.  She  was  supposed  to  be  clever.  It 
interested  Paul. 

Baxter  Dawes  he  knew  and  disliked.  The  smith  was  a  man 
of  thirty-one  or  thirty-two.  He  came  occasionally  through 
Paul's  corner— a  big,  well-set  man,  also  striking  to  look  at, 
and  handsome.  There  was  a  peculiar  similarity  between 
himself  and  his  wife.  He  had  the  same  white  skin,  with  a 


220 


SONS  AXD  LOVERS 


clear,  golden  tinge.  His  hair  was  of  soft  brown,  his  mous- 
tache was  golden.  And  he  had  a  similar  defiance  in  his  bear- 
ing and  manner.  But  then  came  the  difference.  His  eves, 
dark  brown  and  quick-shifting,  were  dissolute.  Thev  pro- 
truded very  slightly,  and  his  eyelids  hung  over  them  in  a 
way  that  was  half  hate.  His  mouth,  too,  was  sensual.  His 
whole  manner  was  of  cowed  defiance,  as  if  he  were  ready 
to  knock  anybody  down  who  disapproved  of  him— perhaps 
because  he  really  disapproved  of  himself. 

From  the  first  day  he  had  hated  Paul.  Finding  the  lad's 
impersonal,  deliberate  gaze  of  an  artist  on  his  face,  he  got 
into  a  fury. 

"What  are  yer  lookin'  at?"  he  sneered,  bullying. 

The  boy  glanced  away.  But  the  smith  used  to  stand  be- 
hind the  counter  and  talk  to  Mr.  Pappleworth.  His  speech 
was  dirty,  with  a  kind  of  rottenness.  Again  he  found  the 
youth  with  his  cool,  critical  gaze  fixed  on  his  face.  The 
smith  started  round  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 

"What'r  yer  lookin'  at,  three  hap'orth  o'  pap?"  he  snarled. 

The  boy  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"Why  yer—!"  shouted  Dawes. 

"Leave  him  alone,"  said  Air.  Pappleworth,  in  that  insinuat- 
ing voice  which  means  "he's  only  one  of  your  good  little 
sops  who  can't  help  it." 

Since  that  time  the  boy  used  to  look  at  the  man  every 
time  he  came  through  with  the  same  curious  criticism,  glanc- 
ing away  before  he  met  the  smith's  eves.  It  made  Dawes  furi- 
ous. They  hated  each  other  in  silence. 

Clara  Dawes  had  no  children.  When  she  had  left  her 
husband  the  home  had  been  broken  up,  and  she  had  gone 
to  live  with  her  mother.  Dawes  lodged  with  his  sister.  In 
the  same  house  was  a  sister-in-law,  and  somehow  Paul  knew 
that  this  girl,  Louie  Travers,  was  now  Dawes's  woman.  She 
was  a  handsome,  insolent  hussy,  who  mocked  at  the  youth, 
and  yet  flushed  if  he  walked  along  to  the  station  with  her 
is  she  went  home. 

The  next  time  he  went  to  see  Miriam  it  was  Saturday 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE 


221 


evening.  She  had  a  fire  in  the  parlour,  and  was  waiting  for 
him.  The  others,  except  her  father  and  mother  and  the 
young  children,  had  gone  out,  so  the  two  had  the  parlour 
together.  It  was  a  long,  low,  warm  room.  Thei'e  were  three 
of  Paul's  small  sketches  on  the  wall,  and  his  photo  was  on 
the  mantelpiece.  On  the  table  and  on  the  high  old  rosewood 
piano  were  bowls  of  coloured  leaves.  He  sat  in  the  arm 
chair,  she  crouched  on  the  hearthrug  near  his  feet.  The  glow 
was  warm  on  her  handsome,  pensive  face  as  she  kneeled 
there  like  a  devotee. 

"What  did  you  think  of  Mrs.  Dawes?"  she  asked  quietly. 

"She  doesn't  look  very  amiable,"  he  replied. 

"No,  but  don't  you  think  she's  a  fine  woman?"  she  said, 
in  a  deep  tone. 

"Yes— in  stature.  But  without  a  grain  of  taste.  I  like  he! 
for  some  things.  Is  she  disagreeable?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  I  think  she's  dissatisfied." 

"What  with?" 

"Well— how  would  you  like  to  be  tied  for  life  to  a  man 
like  that?" 

"Why  did  she  marry  him,  then,  if  she  was  to  have  revul- 
sions so  soon?" 

"Ay,  why  did  she!"  repeated  Miriam  bitterly. 

"And  I  should  have  thought  she  had  enough  fight  in  her 
to  match  him,"  he  said. 

Miriam  bowed  her  head. 

"Ay?"  she  queried  satirically.  "What  makes  you  think 
so?" 

"Look  at  her  mouth— made  for  passion— and  the  very 
set-back  of  her  throat—"  He  threw  his  head  back  in  Clara's 
defiant  manner. 

Miriam  bowed  a  little  lower. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  silence  for  some  moments,  while  he  thought 
of  Clara. 

"And  what  were  the  things  you  liked  about  her?"  she 
asked. 


222 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"I  don't  know— her  skin  and  the  texture  of  her— and  her— 
J  don't  know— there's  a  sort  of  fierceness  somewhere  in  her. 
I  appreciate  her  as  an  artist,  that's  all." 

"Yes."  1 

He  wondered  why  Miriam  crouched  there  brooding  in 
that  strange  way.  It  irritated  him. 

"You  don't  really  like  her,  do  you?"  he  asked  the  girl 
She  looked  at  him  with  her  great,  dazzled  dark  eyes. 
"I  do,"  she  said. 

"You  don't— you  can't— not  really." 
"Then  what?"  she  asked  slowly. 

"Eh,  I  don't  know— perhaps  you  like  her  because  she's 
got  a  grudge  against  men." 

That  was  more  probably  one  of  his  own  reasons  for  liking 
Mrs.  Dawes,  but  this  did  not  occur  to  him.  They  were  silent. 
There  had  come  into  his  forehead  a  knitting  of  the  brows 
which  was  becoming  habitual  with  him,  particularly  when 
he  was  with  Miriam.  She  longed  to  smooth  it  away,  and  she 
was  afraid  of  it.  It  seemed  the  stamp  of  a  man  who  was  not 
i?ier  man  in  Paul  Morel. 

There  were  some  crimson  berries  among  the  leaves  in  the 
bowl.  He  reached  over  and  pulled  out  a  bunch. 

"If  you  put  red  berries  in  your  hair,"  he  said,  "why 
would  you  look  like  some  witch  or  priestess,  and  never  like 
«  reveller?" 

She  laughed  with  a  naked,  painful  sound. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

His  vigorous  warm  hands  were  playing  excitedly  with  the 
berries. 

"Why  can't  you  laugh?"  he  said.  "You  never  laugh  laugh- 
ter. You  only  laugh  when  something  is  odd  or  incongruous* 
and  then  it  almost  seems  to  hurt  you." 

She  bowed  her  head  as  if  he  were  scolding  her. 

"I  wish  you  could  laugh  at  me  just  for  one  minute— just 
for  one  minute.  I  feel  as  if  it  would  set  something  free." 

"But"— and  she  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  frightened 
and  struggling— "I  do  laugh  at  you— I  do." 

"Never!  There's  always  a  kind  of  intensitv.  When  you 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  223 

laugh  I  could  always  cry;  it  seems  as  if  it  shows  up  your 
suffering.  Oh,  you  make  me  knit  the  brows  of  my  very  soul 
and  cogitate." 

Slowly  she  shook  her  head  despairingly. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to,"  she  said. 

"I'm  so  damned  spiritual  with  you  always!"  he  cried. 

She  remained  silent,  thinking,  "Then  why  don't  you  be 
otherwise?"  But  he  saw  her  crouching,  brooding  figure,  and 
it  seemed  to  tear  him  in  two. 

"But  there,  it's  autumn,"  he  said,  "and  everybody  feels 
like  a  disembodied  spirit  then." 

There  was  still  another  silence.  This  peculiar  sadness  be- 
tween them  thrilled  her  soul.  He  seemed  so  beautiful,  with 
his  eyes  gone  dark,  and  looking  as  if  they  were  deep  as  the 
deepest  well. 

"You  make  me  so  spiritual!"  he  lamented.  "And  I  don't 
want  to  be  spiritual." 

She  took  her  finger  from  her  mouth  with  a  little  pop,  and 
looked  up  at  him  almost  challenging.  But  still  her  soul  was 
naked  in  her  great  dark  eyes,  and  there  was  the  same  yearn- 
ing appeal  upon  her.  If  he  could  have  kissed  her  in  abstract 
purity  he  would  have  done  so.  But  he  could  not  kiss  her  thus 
—and  she  seemed  to  leave  no  other  way.  And  she  yearned  to 
him. 

He  gave  a  brief  laugh. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "get  that  French  and  we'll  do  some- 
some  Verlaine." 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  deep  tone,  almost  of  resignation.  And 
she  rose  and  got  the  books.  And  her  rather  red,  nervous 
hands  looked  so  pitiful,  he  was  mad  to  comfort  her  and  kiss 
her.  But  then  he  dared  not— or  could  not.  There  was  some- 
thing prevented  him.  His  kisses  were  wrong  for  her.  They 
continued  the  reading  till  ten  o'clock,  when  they  went  into 
the  kitchen,  and  Paul  was  natural  and  jolly  again  with  the 
father  and  mother.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  shining;  there 
was  a  kind  of  fascination  about  him. 

When  he  went  into  the  barn  for  his  bicycle  he  found  the 
front  wheel  punctured. 


224  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Fetch  me  a  drop  of  water  in  a  bowl,"  he  said  to  her. 
"I  shall  be  late,  and  then  I  s'll  catch  it." 

He  lighted  the  hurricane  lamp,  took  off  his  coat,  turned 
up  the  bicycle,  and  set  speedily  to  work.  Miriam  came  with 
the  bowl  of  water  and  stood  close  to  him,  watching.  She 
loved  to  see  his  hands  doing  things.  He  was  slim  and  vigor- 
ous, with  a  kind  of  easiness  even  in  his  most  hasty  move- 
ments. And  busy  at  his  work,  he  seemed  to  forget  her.  She 
loved  him  absorbedly.  She  wanted  to  run  her  hands  down 
his  sides.  She  always  wanted  to  embrace  him,  so  long  as  he 
did  not  want  her. 

"There!"  he  said,  rising  suddenly.  "Now,  could  you  have 
done  it  quicker?" 

"No!"  she  laughed. 

He  straightened  himself.  His  back  was  towards  her.  She 
put  her  two  hands  on  his  sides,  and  ran  them  quickly  down. 
"You  are  so  fineV  she  said. 

He  laughed,  hating  her  voice,  but  his  blood  roused  to  a 
wave  of  flame  by  her  hands.  She  did  not  seem  to  realize  him 
in  all  this.  He  might  have  been  an  object.  She  never  realized 
the  male  he  was. 

He  lighted  his  bicycle-lamp,  bounced  the  machine  on  the 
barn  floor  to  see  that  the  tires  were  sound,  and  buttoned  his 
coat. 

"That's  all  right!"  he  said. 

She  was  trying  the  brakes,  that  she  knew  were  broken. 

"Did  you  have  them  mended?"  she  asked. 

"No!" 

"But  why  didn't  you?" 

"The  back  one  goes  on  a  bit." 

"But  it's  not  safe."  : 

"I  can  use  my  toe." 

"I  wish  you'd  had  them  mended,"  she  murmured. 
"Don't  worry— come  to  tea  tomorrow,  with  Edgar." 
"Shall  we?" 

"Do— about  four.  I'll  come  to  meet  you." 

"Very  well." 

She  was  pleased.  They  went  across  the  dark  yard  to  the 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  2  2j 

gate.  Looking  across,  he  saw  through  the  uncurtained  win- 
dow of  the  kitchen  the  heads  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leivers  in  the 
warm  glow.  It  looked  very  cosy.  The  road,  with  pine-trees, 
was  quite  black  in  front. 

"Till  tomorrow,"  he  said,  jumping  on  his  bicycle. 

"You'll  take  care,  won't  you?"  she  pleaded. 

"Yes." 

His  voice  already  came  out  of  the  darkness.  She  stood  a 
moment  watching  the  light  from  his  lamp  race  into  ob- 
scurity along  the  ground.  She  turned  very  slowly  indoors. 
Orion  was  wheeling  up  over  the  wood,  his  dog  twinkling 
after  him,  half  smothered.  For  the  rest,  the  world  was  full  of 
darkness,  and  silent,  save  for  the  breathing  of  cattle  in  their 
stalls.  She  prayed  earnestly  for  his  safety  that  night.  When 
he  left  her,  she  often  lay  in  anxiety,  wondering  if  he  had 
got  home  safely. 

He  dropped  down  the  hills  on  his  bicycle.  The  roads  were 
greasy,  so  he  had  to  let  it  go.  He  felt  a  pleasure  as  the  ma- 
chine plunged  over  the  second,  steeper  drop  in  the  hill. 
"Here  goes!"  he  said.  It  was  risky,  because  of  the  curve  in 
the  darkness  at  the  bottom,  and  because  of  the  brewers' 
waggons  with  drunken  waggoners  asleep.  His  bicycle 
seemed  to  fall  beneath  him,  and  he  loved  it.  Recklessness  is 
almost  a  man's  revenge  on  his  woman.  He  feels  he  is  not 
valued,  so  he  will  risk  destroying  himself  to  deprive  her 
altogether. 

The  stars  on  the  lake  seemed  to  leap  like  grasshoppers,  sil- 
ver upon  the  blackness,  as  he  spun  past.  Then  there  was  the 
long  climb  home. 

"See,  mother!"  he  said,  as  he  threw  her  the  berries  and 
leaves  on  to  the  table. 

"H'm!"  she  said,  glancing  at  them,  then  away  again.  She- 
sat  reading,  alone,  as  she  always  did. 

"Aren't  they  pretty?" 

"Yes." 

He  knew  she  was  cross  with  him.  After  a  few  minutes  he 
said: 

"Edgar  and  Miriam  are  coming  to  tea  tomorrow." 


Il6 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


She  did  not  answer. 
"You  don't  mind?" 
Still  she  did  not  answer. 
"Do  you?"  he  asked. 
"You  know  whether  I  mind  or  not." 
"I  don't  see  why  you  should.  I  have  plenty  of  meals 
there." 
"You  do." 

"Then  why  do  you  begrudge  them  tea?" 
"I  begrudge  whom  tea?" 
"What  are  you  so  horrid  for?" 

"Oh,  say  no  more!  You've  asked  her  to  tea,  it's  quite 
sufficient.  She'll  come." 

He  was  very  angry  with  his  mother.  He  knew  it  was 
merely  Miriam  she  objected  to.  He  flung  off  his  boots  and 
went  to  bed. 

Paul  went  to  meet  his  friends  the  next  afternoon.  He  was 
glad  to  see  them  coming.  They  arrived  home  at  about  four 
o'clock.  Everywhere  was  clean  and  still  for  Sunday  after- 
noon. Mrs.  Morel  sat  in  her  black  dress  and  black  apron.  She 
rose  to  meet  the  visitors.  With  Edgar  she  was  cordial,  but 
with  Miriam  cold  and  rather  grudging.  Yet  Paul  thought  the 
girl  looked  so  nice  in  her  brown  cashmere  frock. 

He  helped  his  mother  to  get  the  tea  ready.  Miriam  would 
have  gladly  proffered,  but  was  afraid.  He  was  rather  proud 
of  his  home.  There  was  about  it  now,  he  thought,  a  certain 
distinction.  The  chairs  were  only  wooden,  and  the  sofa  was 
old.  But  the  hearthrug  and  cushions  were  cosy;  the  pictures 
were  prints  in  good  taste;  there  was  a  simplicity  in  every- 
thing, and  plenty  of  books.  He  was  never  ashamed  in  the 
least  of  his  home,  nor  was  Miriam  of  hers,  because  both  were 
what  they  should  be,  and  warm.  And  then  he  was  proud  of 
the  table;  the  china  was  pretty,  the  cloth  was  fine.  It  did  not 
matter  that  the  spoons  were  not  silver  nor  the  knives  ivory- 
handled;  everything  looked  nice.  Mrs.  Morel  had  managed 
wonderfully  while  her  children  were  growing  up,  so  that 
nothing  was  out  of  place. 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  227 

Miriam  talked  books  a  little.  That  was  her  unfailing 
topic.  But  Mrs.  Morel  was  not  cordial,  and  turned  soon  to 
Edgar. 

At  first  Edgar  and  Miriam  used  to  go  into  Mrs.  Morel's 
pew.  Morel  never  went  to  chapel,  preferring  the  public- 
house.  Mrs.  Morel,  like  a  little  champion,  sat  at  the  head 
of  her  pew,  Paul  at  the  other  end;  and  at  first  Miriam  sat 
next  to  him.  Then  the  chapel  was  like  home.  It  was  a  pretty 
place,  with  dark  pews  and  slim,  elegant  pillars,  and  flowers. 
And  the  same  people  had  sat  in  the  same  places  ever  since  he 
was  a  boy.  It  was  wonderfully  sweet  and  soothing  to  sit 
there  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  next  to  Miriam,  and  near  to  his 
mother,  uniting  his  two  loves  under  the  spell  of  the  place  of 
worship.  Then  he  felt  warm  and  happy  and  religious  at  once. 
And  after  chapel  he  walked  home  with  Miriam,  whilst  Mrs. 
Morel  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  with  her  old  friend, 
Mrs.  Burns.  He  was  keenly  alive  on  his  walks  on  Sunday 
nights  with  Edgar  and  Miriam.  He  never  went  past  the  pits 
at  night,  by  the  lighted  lamp-house,  the  tall  black  head- 
stocks  and  lines  of  trucks,  past  the  fans  spinning  slowly  like 
shadows,  without  tlie  feeling  of  Miriam  returning  to  him, 
keen  and  almost  unbearable. 

She  did  not  very  long  occupy  the  Morels'  pew.  Her  father 
took  one  for  themselves  once  more.  It  was  under  the  little 
gallery,  opposite  the  Morels'.  When  Paul  and  his  mother 
came  in  the  chapel  the  Leivers'  pew  was  always  empty.  He 
was  anxious  for  fear  she  would  not  come:  it  \^as  so  far,  and 
there  were  so  many  rainy  Sundays.  Then,  often  very  late 
indeed,  she  came  in,  with  her  long  stride,  her  head  bowed, 
her  face  hidden  under  her  hat  of  dark  green  velvet.  Her 
face,  as  she  sat  opposite,  was  always  in  shadow.  But  it  gave 
him  a  very  keen  feeling,  as  if  all  his  soul  stirred  within  him, 
to  see  her  there.  It  was  not  the  same  glow,  happiness,  and 
pride,  that  he  felt  in  having  his  mother  in  charge:  something 
more  wonderful,  less  human,  and  tinged  to  intensity  by  a 
pain,  as  if  there  were  something  he  could  not  get  to. 

At  this  time  he  was  beginning  to  question  the  orthodox 


228 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


creed.  He  was  twenty-one,  and  she  was  twenty.  She  was 
beginning  to  dread  the  spring:  he  became  so  wild,  and  hurt 
her  so  much.  All  the  way  he  went  cruelly  smashing  her  be- 
liefs. Edgar  enjoyed  it.  He  was  by  nature  critical  and  rather 
dispassionate.  But  Miriam  suffered  exquisite  pain,  as,  with 
an  intellect  like  a  knife,  the  man  she  loved  examined  her 
religion  in  which  she  lived  and  moved  and  had  her  being. 
But  he  did  not  spare  her.  He  was  cruel.  And  when  they  went 
alone  he  was  even  more  fierce,  as  if  he  would  kill  her  soul. 
He  bled  her  beliefs  till  she  almost  lost  consciousness. 

"She  exults— she  exults  as  she  carries  him  off  from  me," 
Mrs.  Morel  cried  in  her  heart  when  Paul  had  gone.  "She's 
not  like  an  ordinary  woman,  who  can  leave  me  my  share  in 
him.  She  wrants  to  absorb  him.  She  wants  to  draw  him  out 
and  absorb  him  till  there  is  nothing  left  of  him,  even  for 
himself.  He  will  never  be  a  man  on  his  own  feet— she  will 
suck  him  up."  So  the  mother  sat,  and  battled  and  brooded 
bitterly. 

And  he,  coming  home  from  his  walks  with  Miriam,  was 
wild  with  torture.  He  walked  biting #his  lips  and  with 
clenched  fists,  going  at  a  great  rate.  Then,  brought  up  against 
a  stile,  he  stood  for  some  minutes,  and  did  not  move.  There 
was  a  great  hollow  of  darkness  fronting  him,  and  on  the 
black  up-slopes  patches  of  tiny  lights,  and  in  the  lowest 
trough  of  the  night,  a  flare  of  the  pit.  It  was  all  weird  and 
dreadful.  Why  was  he  torn  so,  almost  bewildered,  and  un- 
able to  move?  Why  did  his  mother  sit  at  home  and  suffer? 
He  knew  she  suffered  badly.  But  why  should  she?  And 
why  did  he  hate  Miriam,  and  feel  so  cruel  towards  her,  at 
the  thought  of  his  mother.  If  Miriam  caused  his  mother  suf- 
fering, then  he  hated  her— and  he  easily  hated  her.  Why  did 
she  make  him  feel  as  if  he  were  uncertain  of  himself,  inse- 
cure, an  indefinite  thing,  as  if  he  had  not  sufficient  sheathing 
to  prevent  the  night  and  the  space  breaking  into  him?  How 
he  hated  her!  And  then,  what  a  rush  of  tenderness  and 
humility! 

Suddenly  he  plunged  on  again,  running  home.  His  mother 
**™  on  him  the  marks  of  some  agony,  and  she  said  nothing. 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  229 

But  he  had  to  make  her  talk  to  him.  Then  she  was  angry 
with  him  for  going  so  far  with  Miriam. 

"Why  don't  you  like  her,  mother?"  he  cried  in  despair. 

"I  don't  know,  my  boy,"  she  replied  piteously.  "I'm  sure 
I've  tried  to  like  her.  I've  tried  and  tried,  but  I  can't— J 
can't!" 

And  he  felt  dreary  and  hopeless  between  the  two. 

Spring  was  the  worst  time.  He  was  changeable,  and  in- 
tense, and  cruel.  So  he  decided  to  stay  away  from  her. 
Then  came  the  hours  when  he  knew  Miriam  was  expecting 
him.  His  mother  watched  him  growing  restless.  He  could 
not  go  on  with  his  work.  He  could  do  nothing.  It  was  as  if 
something  were  drawing  his  soul  out  towards  Willey  Farm. 
Then  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went,  saying  nothing.  And  his 
mother  knew  he  was  gone.  And  as  soon  as  he  was  on  the 
way  he  sighed  with  relief.  And  when  he  was  with  her  he 
was  cruel  again. 

One  day  in  March  he  lay  on  the  bank  of  Nethermere, 
with  Miriam  sitting  beside  him.  It  was  a  glistening,  white- 
and-blue  day.  Big  clouds,  so  brilliant,  went  by  overhead, 
white  shadows  stole  along  on  the  water.  The  clear  spaces 
in  the  sky  were  of  clean,  cold  blue.  Paul  lay  on  his  back 
in  the  old  grass,  looking  up.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  at 
Miriam.  She  seemed  to  want  him,  and  he  resisted.  He 
resisted  all  the  time.  He  wanted  now  to  give  her  passion 
and  tenderness,  and  he  could  not.  He  felt  that  she  wanted 
the  soul  out  of  his  body,  and  not  him.  All  his  strength 
and  energy  she  drew  into  herself  through  some  channel 
which  united  them.  She  did  not  want  to  meet  him,  so 
that  there  were  two  of  them,  man  and  woman  together. 
She  wanted  to  draw  all  of  him  into  her.  It  urged  him  to 
an  intensity  like  madness,  which  fascinated  him,  as  drug 
taking  might. 

He  was  discussing  Michael  Angelo.  It  felt  to  her  as  if  she 
were  fingering  the  very  quivering  tissue,  the  very  proto- 
plasm of  life,  as  she  heard  him.  It  gave  her  her  deepest  satis- 
faction. And  in  the  end  it  frightened  her.  There  he  lay  in 
the  white  intensity  of  his  search,  and  his  voice  gradually 


230  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

filled  her  with  fear,  so  level  it  was,  almost  inhuman,  as  if 
in  a  trance. 

"Don't  talk  any  more,"  she  pleaded  softly,  laying  her  hand 
on  his  forehead. 

He  lay  quite  still,  almost  unable  to  move.  His  body  was 
somewhere  discarded. 

"Why  not?  Are  you  tired?" 

"Yes,  and  it  wears  you  out." 

He  laughed  shortly,  realizing. 

"Yet  you  always  make  me  like  it,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  wish  to,"  she  said,  very  low. 

"Not  when  you've  gone  too  far,  and  you  feel  you  can't 
bear  it.  But  your  unconscious  self  always  asks  it  of  me. 
And  I  suppose  I  want  it." 

He  weiu  on,  in  his  dead  fashion: 

"If  only  you  could  want  me,  and  not  want  what  I  can  reel 
off  for  you!" 

"I!"  she  cried  bitterly— "I!  Why,  when  would  you  let  me 
take  you?" 

"Then  it's  my  fault,"  he  said,  and,  gathering  himself  to- 
gether, he  got  up  and  began  to  talk  trivialities.  He  felt  insub- 
stantial. In  a  vague  way  he  hated  her  for  it.  And  he  knew 
he  was  as  much  to  blame  himself.  This,  however,  did  not 
prevent  his  hating  her. 

One  evening  about  this  time  he  had  walked  along  the 
home  road  with  her.  They  stood  by  the  pasture  leading 
down  to  the  wood,  unable  to  part.  As  the  stars  came  out 
the  clouds  closed.  They  had  glimpses  of  their  own  con- 
stellation, Orion,  towards  the  west.  His  jewels  glimmered 
for  a  moment,  his  dog  ran  low,  struggling  with  difficulty 
through  the  spume  of  cloud. 

Orion  was  for  them  chief  in  significance  among  the  con- 
stellations. They  had  gazed  at  him  in  their  strange,  sur- 
charged hours  of  feeling,  until  they  seemed  themselves  to 
live  in  every  one  of  his  stars.  This  evening  Paul  had  been 
moody  and  perverse.  Orion  had  seemed  just  an  ordinary 
constellation  to  him.  He  had  fought  against  his  glamour  and 
fascination.  Miriam  was  watching  her  lover's  mood  care- 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  23  I 

fully.  But  he  said  nothing  that  gave  him  away,  till  the  mo- 
ment came  to  part,  when  he  stood  frowning  gloomily  at  the 
gathered  clouds,  behind  which  the  great  constellation  must 
be  striding  stilL 

There  was  to  be  a  little  party  at  his  house  the  next  day,  at 
which  she  was  to  attend. 

"I  shan't  come  and  meet  you,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  very  well;  it's  not  very  nice  out,"  she  replied  slowly. 

"It's  not  that— only  they  don't  like  me  to.  They  say  I  care 
more  for  you  than  for  them.  And  you  understand,  don't 
you?  You  know  it's  only  friendship." 

Miriam  was  astonished  and  hurt  for  him.  It  had  cost  him 
an  effort.  She  left  him,  wanting  to  spare  him  any  further 
humiliation.  A  fine  rain  blew  in  her  face  as  she  walked  along 
the  road.  She  was  hurt  deep  down;  and  she  despised  him  for 
being  blown  about  by  any  wind  of  authority.  And  in  her 
heart  of  hearts,  unconsciously,  she  felt  that  he  was  trying 
to  get  away  from  her.  This  she  would  never  have  acknowl- 
edged. She  pitied  him. 

At  this  time  Paul  became  an  important  factor  in  Jordan's 
warehouse.  Mr.  Pappleworth  left  to  set  up  a  business  of  his 
own,  and  Paul  remained  with  Mr.  Jordan  as  spiral  overseer. 
His  wages  were  to  be  raised  to  thirty  shillings  at  the  year- 
end,  if  things  went  well. 

Still  on  Friday  night  Miriam  often  came  down  for  her 
French  lesson.  Paul  did  not  go  so  frequently  to  Willey 
Farm,  and  she  grieved  at  the  thought  of  her  education's 
coming  to  an  end;  moreover,  they  both  loved  to  be  together, 
in  spite  of  discords.  So  they  read  Balzac,  and  did  composi- 
tions, and  felt  highly  cultured. 

Friday  night  was  reckoning  night  for  the  miners.  Morel 
"reckoned"— shared  up  the  money  at  the  stall— either  in  the 
New  Inn  at  Bretty  or  in  his  own  house,  according  as  his 
fellow-butties  wished.  Barker  had  turned  a  non-drinker,  so 
now  the  men  reckoned  at  Morel's  house. 

Annie,  who  had  been  teaching  away,  was  at  home  again, 
She  was  still  a  tomboy;  and  she  was  engaged  to  be  married^ 
Paul  was  studying  design. 


232  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Morel  was  always  in  good  spirits  on  Friday  evening,  unless 
the  week's  earnings  were  small.  He  bustled  immediately  after 
his  dinner,  prepared  to  get  washed.  It  was  decorum  for  the 
women  to  absent  themselves  while  the  men  reckoned. 
Women  were  not  supposed  to  spy  into  such  a  masculine 
privacy  as  the  butties'  reckoning,  nor  were  they  to  know  the 
exact  amount  of  the  week's  earnings.  So,  whilst  her  father 
was  spluttering  in  the  scullery,  Annie  went  out  to  spend 
an  hour  with  a  neighbour.  Mrs.  Morel  attended  to  her 
baking. 

"Shut  that  doo-er !"  bawled  Morel  furiously. 

Annie  banged  it  behind  her,  and  was  gone. 

"If  tha  oppens  it  again  while  I'm  weshin'  me,  I'll  ma'e  thy 
jaw  rattle,"  he  threatened  from  the  midst  of  his  soapsuds. 
Paul  and  the  mother  frowned  to  hear  him. 

Presently  he  came  running  out  of  the  scullery,  with  the 
soapy  water  dripping  from  him,  dithering  with  cold. 

"Oh,  my  sirs!"  he  said.  "Wheer's  my  towel?" 

It  was  hung  on  a  chair  to  warm  before  the  fire,  otherwise 
he  would  have  bullied  and  blustered.  He  squatted  on  his 
heels  before  the  hot  baking-fire  to  dry  himself. 

"F-ff-f ! "  he  went,  pretending  to  shudder  with  cold. 

"Goodness,  man,  don't  be  such  a  kid!"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 
•It's  not  cold." 

"Thee  strip  thysen  stark  nak'd  to  wesh  thy  flesh  i'  that 
scullery,"  said  the  miner,  as  he  rubbed  his  hair ;  "nowt  b'r  a 
ice-'ouse ! " 

"And  I  shouldn't  make  that  fuss,"  replied  his  wife. 

"No,  tha'd  drop  down  stiff,  as  dead  as  a  door-knob,  wi* 
thy  nesh  sides." 

"Why  is  a  door-knob  deader  than  anything  else?"  asked 
Paul,  curious. 

"Eh,  I  dunno;  that's  what  they  say,"  replied  his  father. 
"But  there's  that  much  draught  i'  yon  scullery,  as  it  blows 
through  your  ribs  like  through  a  five-barred  gate." 

"It  would  have  some  difficulty  in  blowing  through  yours," 
said  Mrs.  Morel. 

Morel  looked  down  ruefully  at  his  sides. 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  233 

"Me!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm  nowt  b'r  a  skinned  rabbit.  My 
bones  fair  juts  out  on  me." 

"I  should  like  to  know  where,"  retorted  his  wife. 

"Iv'ry-wheer!  I'm  nobbut  a  sack  o'  faggots." 

Mrs.  Morel  laughed.  He  had  still  a  wonderfully  young 
body,  muscular,  without  any  fat.  His  skin  was  smooth  and 
clear.  It  might  have  been  the  body  of  a  man  of  twenty-eight, 
except  that  there  were,  perhaps,  too  many  blue  scars,  like 
tattoo-marks,  where  the  coal-dust  remained  under  the  skin, 
and  that  his  chest  was  too  hairy.  But  he  put  his  hand  on  his 
sides  ruefully.  It  was  his  fixed  belief  that,  because  he  did  not 
get  fat,  he  was  as  thin  as  a  starved  rat. 

Paul  looked  at  his  father's  thick,  brownish  hands  all 
scarred,  with  broken  nails,  rubbing  the  fine  smoothness  of 
his  sides,  and  the  incongruity  struck  him.  It  seemed  strange 
they  were  the  same  flesh. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  to  his  father,  "you  had  a  good  figure 
once." 

"Eh!"  exclaimed  the  miner,  glancing  round,  startled  and 
timid,  like  a  child. 

"He  had,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morel,  "if  he  didn't  hurtle  him- 
self up  as  if  he  was  trying  to  get  in  the  smallest  space  he 
could." 

"Me!"  exclaimed  Morel— "me  a  good  figure!  I  wor  nive* 
much  more  n'r  a  skeleton," 

"Man!"  cried  his  wife,  "don't  be  such  a  pulamiter!" 

"  'Strewth!"  he  said.  "Tha's  niver  knowed  me  but  what  I 
looked  as  if  I  wor  goin'  off  in  a  rapid  decline." 

She  sat  and  laughed. 

"You've  had  a  constitution  like  iron,"  she  said;  "and  never 
a  man  had  a  better  start,  if  it  was  body  that  counted.  You 
should  have  seen  him  as  a  young  man,"  she  cried  suddenly 
to  Paul,  drawing  herself  up  to  imitate  her  husband's  once 
handsome  bearing. 

Morel  watched  her  shyly.  He  saw  again  the  passion  she 
had  had  for  him.  It  blazed  upon  her  for  a  moment.  He  was 
shy,  rather  scared,  and  humble.  Yet  again  he  felt  his  old 
glow.  And  then  immediately  he  felt  the  ruin  he  had  made 


234  S0NS  AND  LOyERS 

during  these  years.  He  wanted  to  bustle  about,  to  run  away 
from  it. 

"Gi'e  my  back  a  bit  of  a  wesh,"  he  asked  her. 

His  wife  brought  a  well-soaped  flannel  and  clapped  it  on 
his  shoulders.  He  gave  a  jump. 

"Eh,  tha  mucky  little  'ussy!"  he  cried.  "Cowd  as  death!" 

"You  ought  to  have  been  a  salamander,"  she  laughed, 
washing  his  back.  It  was  very  rarely  she  would  do  anything 
so  personal  for  him.  The  children  did  those  things. 

"The  next  world  won't  be  half  hot  enough  for  you,"  she 
added. 

"No,"  he  said;  "tha'lt  see  as  it's  draughty  for  me." 

But  she  had  finished.  She  wiped  him  in  a  desultory  fashion, 
and  went  upstairs,  returning  immediately  with  his  shifting- 
trousers.  When  he  was  dried  he  struggled  into  his  shirt. 
Then,  ruddy  and  shiny,  with  hair  on  end,  and  his  flannelette 
shirt  hanging  over  his  pit-trousers,  he  stood  warming  the 
garments  he  was  going  to  put  on.  He  turned  them,  he  pulled 
them  inside  out,  he  scorched  them. 

"Goodness,  man!"  cried  Mrs.  Morel;  "get  dressed!" 

"Should  thee  like  to  clap  thysen  into  britches  as  cowd  as 
a  tub  o'  water?"  he  said. 

At  last  he  took  off  his  pit-trousers  and  donned  decent 
black.  He  did  all  this  on  the  hearthrug,  as  he  would  have 
done  if  Annie  and  her  familiar  friends  had  been  present. 

Mrs.  Morel  turned  the  bread  in  the  oven.  Then  from  the 
red  earthenware  panchion  of  dough  that  stood  in  a  corner 
she  took  another  handful  of  paste,  worked  it  to  the  proper 
shape,  and  dropped  it  into  a  tin.  As  she  was  doing  so  Barker 
knocked  and  entered.  Hs  was  a  quiet,  compact  little  man, 
who  looked  as  if  he  would  go  through  a  stone  wall.  His 
black  hair  was  cropped  short,  his  head  was  bony.  Like  most 
miners,  he  was  pale,  but  healthy  and  taut. 

"Evenin',  missis,"  he  nodded  to  Mrs.  Morel,  and  he  seated 
himself  with  a  sigh. 

"Good-evening,"  she  replied  cordially. 

"Tha's  made  thy  heels  crack,"  said  Morel. 

"I  dunno  as  I  have,"  said  Barker. 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  235 

He  sat,  as  the  men  always  did  in  Mrs.  Morel's  kitchen, 
effacing  himself  rather. 

"How's  missis?"  she  asked  of  him. 

He  had  told  her  some  time  back: 

"We're  expectin'  us  third  just  now,  you  see." 

"Well,"  he  answered,  rubbing  his  head,  "she  keeps  pretty 
middlin',  I  think." 

"Let's  see— when?"  asked  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  any  time  now.'1 

"Ah!  And  she's  kept  fairly?" 

"Yes,  tidy." 

"That's  a  blessing,  for  she's  none  too  strong." 
"No.  An'  I've  done  another  silly  trick." 
"What's  that?" 

Mrs.  Morel  knew  Barker  wouldn't  do  anything  very  silly* 

"I'm  come  be-out  th'  market-bag." 

"You  can  have  mine." 

"Nay,  you'll  be  wantin'  that  yourself." 

"I  shan't.  I  take  a  string  bag  always." 

She  saw  the  determined  little  collier  buying  in  the  week's 
groceries  and  meat  on  the  Friday  nights,  and  she  admired 
him.  "Barker's  little,  but  he's  ten  times  the  man  you  are," 
she  said  to  her  husband. 

Just  then  Wesson  entered.  He  was  thin,  rather  frail- 
looking,  with  a  boyish  ingenuousness  and  a  slightly  foolish 
smile,  despite  his  seven  children.  But  his  wife  was  a  passionate 
woman. 

"I  see  you've  kested  me,"  he  said,  smiling  rather  vapidly. 
"Yes,"  replied  Barker. 

The  newcomer  took  off  his  cap  and  his  big  wooden  muf- 
fler. His  nose  was  pointed  and  red. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  cold,  Mr.  Wesson,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 
"It's  a  bit  nippy,"  he  replied. 
"Then  come  to  the  fire." 
"Nay,  I  sTl  do  where  I  am." 

Both  colliers  sat  away  back.  They  could  not  be  induced 
to  come  on  to  the  hearth.  The  hearth  is  sacred  to  the  family. 
"Go  thy  ways  i'  th'  arm-chair,"  cried  Morel  cheerily. 


£36  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Nay,  thank  yer;  I'm  very  nicely  here." 

"Yes,  come,  of  course,"  insisted  Mrs.  Morel. 

He  rose  and  went  awkwardly.  He  sat  in  Morel's  arm- 
chair awkwardly.  It  was  too  great  a  familiarity.  But  the 
fire  made  him  blissfully  happy. 

"And  how's  that  chest  of  yours?"  demanded  Mrs.  Morel. 

He  smiled  again,  with  his  blue  eyes  rather  sunny. 

"Oh,  it's  very  middlin',"  he  said. 

"WF  a  rattle  in  it  like  a  kettle-drum,"  said  Barker  shortly. 

"T-t-t-t!"  went  Mrs.  Morel  rapidly  with  her  tongue.  "Did 
you  have  that  flannel  singlet  made?" 

"Not  yet,"  he  smiled. 

"Then,  why  didn't  you?"  she  cried. 

"It'll  come,"  he  smiled. 

"Ah,  an'  Doomsday!"  exclaimed  Barker. 

Barker  and  Morel  were  both  impatient  of  Wesson.  But, 
then,  they  were  both  as  hard  as  nails,  physically. 

When  Morel  was  nearly  ready  he  pushed  the  bag  of 
money  to  Paul. 

"Count  it,  boy,"  he  asked  humbly. 

Paul  impatiently  turned  from  his  books  and  pencil,  tipped 
the  bag  upside  down  on  the  table.  There  was  a  five-pound 
bag  of  silver,  sovereigns  and  loose  money.  He  counted 
quickly,  referred  to  the  checks— the  written  papers  giving 
amount  of  coal— put  the  money  in  order.  Then  Barker 
glanced  at  the  checks. 

Mrs.  Morel  went  upstairs,  and  the  three  men  came  to 
table.  Morel,  as  master  of  the  house,  sat  in  his  arm-chair,  with 
his  back  to  the  hot  fire.  The  two  butties  had  cooler  seats. 
None  of  them  counted  the  money. 

"What  did  we  say  Simpson's  was?"  asked  Morel;  and  the 
butties  cavilled  for  a  minute  over  the  dayman's  earnings. 
Then  the  amount  was  put  aside. 

"An'  Bill  Naylor's?" 

This  money  also  was  taken  from  the  pack. 
Then,  because  Wesson  lived  in  one  of  the  company's 
Siouses,  and  his  rent  had  been  deducted,  Morel  and  Barker 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  237 

took  four-and-six  each.  And  because  Morel's  coals  had  come, 
and  the  leading  was  stopped,  Barker  and  Wesson  took  four 
shillings  each.  Then  it  was  plain  sailing.  Morel  gave  each  of 
them  a  sovereign  till  there  were  no  more  sovereigns;  each 
half  a  crown  till  there  were  no  more  half-crowns;  each  a 
shilling  till  there  were  no  more  shillings.  If  there  was  any- 
thing at  the  end  that  wouldn't  split,  Morel  took  it  and  stood 
drinks. 

Then  the  three  men  rose  and  went.  Morel  scuttled  out  of 
the  house  before  his  wife  came  down.  She  heard  the  door 
close,  and  descended.  She  looked  hastily  at  the  bread  in 
the  oven.  Then,  glancing  on  the  table,  she  saw  her  money 
lying.  Paul  had  been  working  all  the  time.  But  now  he 
felt  his  mother  counting  the  week's  money,  and  her  wrath 
rising. 

"T-t-t-t-t!"  went  her  tongue. 

He  frowned.  He  could  not  work  when  she  was  cross.  She 
counted  again. 

"A  measly  twenty-five  shillings!"  she  exclaimed.  "How 
much  was  the  cheque?" 

"Ten  pounds  eleven,"  said  Paul  irritably.  He  dreaded  what 
was  coming. 

"And  he  gives  me  a  scrattlin'  twenty-five,  an'  his  club  this 
week!  But  I  know  him.  He  thinks  because  you! re  earning  he 
needn't  keep  the  house  any  longer.  No,  all  he  has  to  do  with 
his  money  is  to  guttle  it.  But  I'll  show  him!" 

"Oh,  mother,  don't!"  cried  Paul. 

"Don't  what,  I  should  like  to  know?"  she  exclaimed. 

"Don't  carry  on  again.  I  can't  work." 

She  went  very  quiet. 

"Yes,  it's  all  very  well,"  she  said;  "but  how  do  you  think 
I'm  going  to  manage?" 

"Well,  it  won't  make  it  any  better  to  whittle  about  it." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  you'd  do  if  you  had  it  to 
put  up  with." 

"It  won't  be  long.  You  can  have  my  money.  Let  him  go 
to  hell." 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 

He  went  back  to  his  work,  and  she  tied  her  bonnet-strings 
grimly.  When  she  was  fretted  he  could  not  bear  it.  But  now 
he  began  to  insist  on  her  recognizing  him. 

"The  two  loaves  at  the  top,"  she  said,  "will  be  done  in 
twenty  minutes.  Don't  forget  them." 

"All  right,"  he  answered;  and  she  went  to  market. 

He  remained  alone  working.  But  his  usual  intense  concen- 
tration became  unsettled.  He  listened  for  the  yard-gate.  At 
a  quarter-past  seven  came  a  low  knock,  and  Miriam  en- 
tered. 

"All  alone?"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

As  if  at  home,  she  took  off  her  tam-o'-shanter  and  her 
long  coat,  hanging  them  up.  It  gave  him  a  thrill.  This  might 
be  their  own  house,  his  and  hers.  Then  she  came  back  and 
peered  over  his  work. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Still  design,  for  decorating  stuffs,  and  for  embroidery." 

She  bent  short-sightedly  over  the  drawings. 

It  irritated  him  that  she  peered  so  into  everything  that 
was  his,  searching  him  out.  He  went  into  the  parlour  and 
returned  with  a  bundle  of  brownish  linen.  Carefully  unfold- 
ing it,  he  spread  it  on  the  floor.  It  proved  to  be  a  curtain  or 
portiere,  beautifully  stencilled  with  a  design  on  roses. 

"Ah,  how  beautiful!"  she  cried. 

The  spread  cloth,  with  its  wonderful  reddish  roses  and 
dark  green  stems,  all  so  simple,  and  somehow  so  wicked- 
looking,  lay  at  her  feet.  She  went  on  her  knees  before  it, 
her  dark  curls  dropping.  He  saw  her  crouched  voluptuously 
before  his  work,  and  his  heart  beat  quickly.  Suddenly  she 
looked  up  at  him. 

"Why  does  it  seem  cruel?"  she  asked. 

"What?" 

"There  seems  a  feeling  of  cruelty  about  it,"  she  said. 
"It's  jolly  good,  whether  or  not,"  he  replied,  folding  up 
his  work  with  a  lover's  hands. 
She  rose  slowly,  pondering. 
"And  what  will  you  do  with  it?"  she  asked. 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  239 

"Send  it  to  Liberty's.  I  did  it  for  my  mother,  but  I  think 
she'd  rather  have  the  money." 

"Yes,"  said  Miriam.  He  had  spoken  with  a  touch  of  bitter- 
ness, and  Miriam  sympathized.  Money  would  have  been 
nothing  to  her. 

He  took  the  cloth  back  into  the  parlour.  When  he  re- 
turned, he  threw  to  Miriam  a  smaller  piece.  It  was  a  cushion- 
cover  with  the  same  design. 

"I  did  that  for  you,"  he  said. 

She  fingered  the  work  with  trembling  hands,  and  did  not 
speak.  He  became  embarrassed. 
"By  Jove,  the  bread!"  he  cried. 

He  took  the  top  loaves  out,  tapped  them  vigorously.  They 
were  done.  He  put  them  on  the  hearth  to  cool.  Then  he 
went  to  the  scullery,  wetted  his  hands,  scooped  the  last  white 
dough  out  of  the  punchion,  and  dropped  it  in  a  baking-tin, 
Miriam  was  still  bent  over  her  painted  cloth.  He  stood  rut* 
bing  the  bits  of  dough  from  his  hands. 

"You  do  like  it?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  with  her  dark  eyes  one  flame  of 
love.  He  laughed  uncomfortably.  Then  he  began  to  talk 
about  the  design.  There  was  for  him  the  most  intense 
pleasure  in  talking  about  his  work  to  Miriam.  All  his  pas- 
sion, all  his  wild  blood,  went  into  this  intercourse  with  her, 
when  he  talked  and  conceived  his  work.  She  brought  forth 
to  him  his  imaginations.  She  did  not  understand,  any  more 
than  a  woman  understands  when  she  conceives  a  child  in 
her  womb.  But  this  was  life  for  her  and  for  him. 

While  they  were  talking,  a  young  woman  of  about 
twenty-two,  small  and  pale,  hollow-eyed,  yet  with  a  relent- 
less look  about  her,  entered  the  room.  She  was  a  friend  at 
the  Morels'. 

"Take  your  things  off,"  said  Paul. 

"No,  I'm  not  stopping." 

She  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair  opposite  Paul  and  Miriam, 
who  were  on  the  sofa.  Miriam  moved  a  little  farther  from 
him.  The  room  was  hot,  with  a  scent  of  new  bread.  Brown, 
crisp  loaves  stood  on  the  hearth. 


24O  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"I  shouldn't  have  expected  to  see  you  here  tonight,  Mir- 
iam Leivers,"  said  Beatrice  wickedly. 

"Why  not?"  murmured  Miriam  huskily. 

"Why,  let's  look  at  your  shoes." 

Miriam  remained  uncomfortably  still. 

"If  tha  doesna  tha  durs'na,"  laughed  Beatrice. 

Miriam  put  her  feet  from  under  her  dress.  Her  boots  had 
that  queer,  irresolute,  rather  pathetic  look  about  them,  which 
showed  how  self-conscious  and  self-mistrustful  she  was.  And 
ijmy  were  covered  with  mud. 

"Glory!  You're  a  positive  muck-heap,"  exclaimed  Bea- 
trice. "Who  cleans  your  boots?" 

"I  clean  them  myself." 

"Then  you  wanted  a  job,"  said  Beatrice.  "It  would 
ha'  taken  a  lot  of  men  to  ha'  brought  me  down  here 
tonight.  But  love  laughs  at  sludge,  doesn't  it,  'Postle  my 
duck?" 

"Inter  alia"  he  said. 

"Oh,  Lord!  are  you  going  to  spout  foreign  languages? 
What  does  it  mean,  Miriam?" 

There  was  a  fine  sarcasm  in  the  last  question,  but  Miriam 
did  not  see  it. 

"  'Among  other  things,'  I  believe,"  she  said  humbly. 

Beatrice  put  her  tongue  between  her  teeth  and  laughed 
wickedly. 

"'Among  other  things,'  'Postle?"  she  repeated.  "Do  you 
mean  love  laughs  at  mothers,  and  fathers,  and  sisters,  and 
I  rotheis,  and  men  friends,  and  lady  friends,  and  even  at  the 
b'loved  himself?" 

She  affected  a  great  innocence. 

"In  fact,  it's  one  big  smile,"  he  replied. 

"Up  its  sleeve,  'Postle  Morel— you  believe  me,"  she  said; 
and  she  went  off  into  another  burst  of  wicked,  silent 
laughter! 

Miriam  sat  silent,  withdrawn  into  herself.  Every  one  of 
Paul's  friends  delighted  in  taking  sides  against  her,  and  he 
left  her  in  the  lurch—seemed  almost  to  have  a  sort  of  revenge 
upon  her  then. 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  24 1 

"Are  you  still  at  school?"  asked  Miriam  of  Beatrice. 
"Yes." 

"You've  not  had  your  notice,  then?" 
"I  expect  it  at  Easter." 

"Isn't  it  an  awful  shame,  to  turn  you  off  merely  because  » 
you  didn't  pass  the  exam?"  ' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Beatrice  coldly. 

"Agatha  says  you're  as  good  as  any  teacher  anywhere. 
It  seems  to  me  ridiculous.  I  wonder  why  you  didn't  pass." 

"Short  of  brains,  eh,  'Postle?"  said  Beatrice  briefly. 

"Only  brains  to  bite  with,"  replied  Paul,  laughing. 

"Nuisance!"  she  cried;  and,  springing  from  her  seat,  she 
rushed  and  boxed  his  ears.  She  had  beautiful  small  hands. 
He  held  her  wrists  while  she  wrestled  with  him.  At  last  she 
broke  free,  and  seized  two  handfuls  of  his  thick,  dark  brown 
hair,  which  she  shook. 

"Beat!"  he  said,  as  he  pulled  his  hair  straight  with  his 
fingers.  "I  hate  you!" 

She  laughed  with  glee. 

"Mind!"  she  said.  "I  want  to  sit  next  to  you." 

"I'd  as  lief  be  neighbours  with  a  vixen,"  he  said,  neverthe 
less  making  place  for  her  between  him  and  Miriam. 

"Did  it  ruffle  his  pretty  hair,  then!"  she  cried;  and,  with 
her  hair-comb,  she  combed  him  straight.  "And  his  nice  little 
moustache!"  she  exclaimed.  She  tilted  his  head  back  and 
combed  his  young  moustache.  "It's  a  wicked  moustache, 
'Postle,"  she  said.  "It's  a  red  for  danger.  Have  you  got  any  of 
those  cigarettes?" 

He  pulled  his  cigarette-case  from  his  pocket.  Beatrice 
Looked  inside  it. 

"And  fancy  me  having  Connie's  last  cig,"  said  Beatrice, 
putting  the  thing  between  her  teeth.  He  held  a  lit  match  to 
her,  and  she  puffed  daintily. 

"Thanks  so  much,  darling,"  she  said  mockingly. 

It  gave  her  a  wicked  delight. 

"Don't  you  think  he  does  it  nicely,  Miriam?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  very!"  said  Miriam. 

He  took  a  cigarette  for  himself. 


242  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Light,  old  boy?"  said  Beatrice,  tilting  her  cigarette  at 
him. 

He  bent  forward  to  her  to  light  his  cigarette  at  hers.  She 
was  winking  at  him  as  she  did  so.  Miriam  saw  his  eyes  trem- 
bling with  mischief,  and  his  full,  almost  sensual,  mouth 
quivering.  He  was  not  himself,  and  she  could  not  bear  it.  As 
he  was  now,  she  had  no  connexion  with  him;  she  might  as 
well  not  have  existed.  She  saw  the  cigarette  dancing  on  his 
full  red  lips.  She  hated  his  thick  hair  for  being  tumbled 
Joose  on  his  forehead. 

"Sweet  boy!"  said  Beatrice,  tipping  up  his  chin  and  giving 
him  a  little  kiss  on  the  cheek. 

"I  s'll  kiss  thee  back,  Beat,"  he  said. 

"Tha  wunna!"  she  giggled,  jumping  up  and  going  away. 
"Isn't  he  shameless,  Miriam?" 

"Quite,"  said  Miriam.  "By  the  way,  aren't  you  forgetting 
the  bread?" 

"By  Jove!"  he  cried,  flinging  open  the  oven-door. 

Out  puffed  the  bluish  smoke  and  a  smell  of  burned  bread. 

"Oh,  golly!"  cried  Beatrice,  coming  to  his  side.  He 
crouched  before  the  oven,  she  peered  over  his  shoulder. 
"This  is  what  comes  of  the  oblivion  of  love,  my  boy." 

Paul  was  ruefully  removing  the  loaves.  One  was  burnt 
black  on  the  hot  side;  another  was  hard  as  a  brick. 

"Poor  mater!"  said  Paul. 

"You  want  to  grate  it,"  said  Beatrice.  "Fetch  me  the  nut- 
meg-grater." 

She  arranged  the  bread  in  the  oven.  He  brought  the  grater, 
and  she  grated  the  bread  on  to  a  newspaper  on  the  table. 
He  set  the  doors  open  to  blow  away  the  smell  of  burned 
bread.  Beatrice  grated  away,  puffing  her  cigarette,  knock- 
ing the  charcoal  off  the  poor  loaf. 

"My  word,  Miriam!  you're  in  for  it  this  time,"  said 
Beatrice. 

"I!"  exclaimed  Miriam  in  amazement. 

"You'd  better  be  gone  when  his  mother  comes  in.  /  know 
why  King  Alfred  burned  the  cakes.  Now  I  see  it!  'Postle 
would  fix  up  a  tale  about  his  work  making  him  forget,  if 


I 

STRIFE  IN  LOVE  243 

he  thought  it  would  wash.  If  that  old  woman  had  come  in  a 
bit  sooner,  she'd  have  boxed  the  brazen  thing's  ears  who 
made  the  oblivion,  instead  of  poor  Alfred's." 

She  giggled  as  she  scraped  the  loaf.  Even  Miriam  laughed 
in  spite  of  herself.  Paul  mended  the  fire  ruefully. 

The  garden-gate  was  heard  to  bang. 

"Quick!"  cried  Beatrice,  giving  Paul  the  scraped  loaf. 
"Wrap  it  up  in  a  damp  towel." 

Paul  disappeared  into  the  scullery.  Beatrice  hastily  blew 
her  scrapings  into  the  fire,  and  sat  down  innocently.  Annie 
came  bursting  in.  She  was  an  abrupt,  quite  smart  young 
woman.  She  blinked  in  the  strong  light. 

"Smell  of  burning!"  she  exclaimed. 

"It's  the  cigarettes,"  replied  Beatrice  demurely. 

"Where's  Paul?" 

Leonard  had  followed  Annie.  He  had  a  long  comic  face 
and  blue  eyes,  very  sad. 

"I  suppose  he's  left  you  to  settle  it  between  you,"  he 
said.  He  nodded  sympathetically  to  Miriam,  and  became 
gently  sarcastic  to  Beatrice. 

"No,"  said  Beatrice,  "he's  gone  off  with  number  nine." 

"I  just  met  number  five  inquiring  for  him,"  said  Leonard. 

"Yes— we're  going  to  share  him  up  like  Solomon's  baby," 
said  Beatrice. 

Annie  laughed. 

"Oh,  ay,"  said  Leonard.  "And  which  bit  should  you 
have?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Beatrice.  "I'll  let  all  the  others  pick 
first." 

"An'  you'd  have  the  leavings,  like?"  said  Leonard,  twisting 
up  a  comic  face. 

Annie  was  looking  in  the  oven.  Miriam  sat  ignored.  Paul 
entered. 

"This  bread's  a  fine  sight,  our  Paul,"  said  Annie. 
"Then  you  should  stop  an'  look  after  it,"  said  Paul. 
"You  mean  you  should  do  what  you're  reckoning  to  do." 
replied  Annie. 

"He  should,  shouldn't  he!"  cried  Beatrice. 


244  S0NS  AND  LOVERS 

"I  s'd  think  he'd  got  plenty  on  hand,"  said  Leonard. 

"You  had  a  nasty  walk,  didn't  you,  Miriam?"  said  Annie. 

"Yes— but  I'd  been  in  all  week  " 

"And  you  wanted  a  bit  of  a  change,  like,"  insinuated 
Leonard  kindly. 

"Well,  you  can't  be  stuck  in  the  house  forever,"  Annie 
agreed.  She  was  quite  amiable.  Beatrice  pulled  on  her  coat, 
and  went  out  with  Leonard  and  Annie.  She  would  meet  her 
own  boy. 

"Don't  forget  that  bread,  our  Paul,"  cried  Annie.  "Good- 
night, Miriam.  I  don't  think  it  will  rain." 

When  they  had  all  gone,  Paul  fetched  the  swathed  loaf, 
unwrapped  it,  and  surveyed  it  sadly. 

"It's  a  mess!"  he  said. 

"But,"  answered  Miriam  impatiently,  "what  is  it,  after  all — 
twopence  ha'penny." 

"Yes,  but— but  it's  the  mater's  precious  baking,  and  she'll 
take  it  to  heart.  However,  it's  no  good  bothering." 

He  took  the  loaf  back  into  the  scullery.  There  was  a  little 
distance  between  him  and  Miriam.  He  stood  balanced  oppo- 
site her  for  some  moments  considering,  thinkings  of  his  be- 
haviour with  Beatrice.  He  felt  guilty  inside  himself,  and  yet 
glad.  For  some  inscrutable  reason  it  served  Miriam  right.  He 
was  not  going  to  repent.  She  wondered  what  he  wTas  think- 
ing of  as  he  stood  suspended.  His  thick  hair  was  tumbled 
over  his  forehead.  Why  might  she  not  push  it  back  for  him, 
and  remove  the  marks  of  Beatrice's  comb?  Why  might  she 
not  press  his  body  with  her  two  hands?  It  looked  so  firm, 
and  every  whit  living.  And  he  would  let  other  girls,  why  not 
her? 

Suddenly  he  started  into  life.  It  made  her  quiver  almost 
with  terror  as  he  quickly  pushed  the  hair  off  his  forehead 
and  came  towards  her. 

"Half-past  eight!"  he  said.  "We'd  better  buck  up.  Where's 
your  French?" 

Miriam  shyly  and  rather  bitterly  produced  her  exercise- 
book.  Every  week  she  wrote  for  him  a  sort  of  diary  of  her 
inner  life,  in  her  own  French.  He  had  found  this  was  the 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  245 

only  way  to  get  her  to  do  composition.  And  her  diary  was 
mostly  a  love-letter.  He  would  read  it  now;  she  felt  as  if  her 
soul's  history  were  going  to  be  desecrated  by  him  in  his 
present  mood.  He  sat  beside  her.  She  watched  his  hand,  firm 
and  warm,  rigorously  scoring  her  work.  He  was  reading 
only  the  French,  ignoring  her  soul  that  was  there.  But 
gradually  his  hand  forgot  its  work.  He  read  in  silence, 
motionless.  She  quivered. 

"  'Ce  matin  les  oiseaux  m'ont  eveille,'  "  he  read.  "  'II  faisait 
encore  un  crepuscule.  Mais  la  petite  fenetre  de  ma  chambre, 
etait  bleme,  et  puis,  jaune,  et  tous  les  oiseaux.  du  bois 
eclaterent  dans  un  chanson  vif  et  resonnant.  Toute  l'aube 
tressaillit.  J'avais  reve  de  vous.  Est-ce  que  vous  voyez  aussi 
l'aube?  Les  oiseaux  m'eveillent  presque  tous  les  matins,  et 
tou  jours  il  y  a  quel  que  chose  de  terreur  dans  le  cri  des  grives. 
II  est  si  clair  '  " 

Miriam  sat  tremulous,  half  ashamed.  He  remained  quite 
still,  trying  to  understand.  He  only  knew  she  loved  him.  He 
was  afraid  of  her  love  for  him.  It  was  too  good  for  him,  and 
he  was  inadequate.  His  own  love  was  at  fault,  not  hers, 
Ashamed,  he  corrected  her  work,  humbly  writing  above 
her  words. 

"Look,"  he  said  quietly,  "the  past  participle  conjugated 
with  avoir  agrees  with  the  direct  object  when  it  precedes.'' 

She  bent  forward,  trying  to  see  and  to  understand.  Her 
free,  fine  curls  tickled  his  face.  He  started  as  if  they  bad 
been  red  hot,  shuddering.  He  saw  her  peering  forward  at 
the  page,  her  red  lips  parted  piteously,  the  black  hair  spring- 
ing in  fine  strands  across  her  tawny,  ruddy  cheek.  She  was 
coloured  like  a  pomegranate  for  richness.  His  breath  came 
short  as  he  watched  her.  Suddenly  she  looked  up  at  him. 
Her  dark  eyes  were  naked  with  their  love,  afraid,  and  yearn- 
ing. His  eyes,  too,  were  dark,  and  they  hurt  her.  They 
seemed  to  master  her;  She  lost  all  her  self-control,  was  ex- 
posed in  fear.  And  he  knew,  before  he  could  kiss  her,  he 
must  drive  something  out  of  himself.  And  a  touch  of  hate 
for  her  crept  back  again  into  his  heart.  He  returned  to  her 
exercise. 


246  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Suddenly  he  flung  down  the  pencil,  and  was  at  the  oven 
in  a  leap,  turning  the  bread.  For  Miriam  he  was  too  quick. 
She  started  violently,  and  it  hurt  her  with  real  pain.  Even 
the  way  he  crouched  before  the  oven  hurt  her.  There  seemed 
to  be  something  cruel  in  it,  something  cruel  in  the  swift  way 
he  pitched  the  bread  out  of  the  tins,  caught  it  up  again.  If 
only  he  had  been  gentle  in  his  movements  she  would  have 
felt  so  rich  and  warm.  As  it  was,  she  was  hurt. 

He  returned  and  finished  the  exercise. 

"You've  done  well  this  week,"  he  said. 

She  saw  he  was  flattered  by  her  diary.  It  did  not  repay 
her  entirely. 

"You  really  do  blossom  out  sometimes,"  he  said.  "You 
ought  to  write  poetry." 

She  lifted  her  head  with  joy,  then  she  shook  it  mistrust- 
fully. 

"I  don't  trust  myself,"  she  said. 

"You  should  try!" 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"Shall  we  read,  or  is  it  too  late?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  late— but  we  can  read  just  a  little,"  she  pleaded. 

She  was  really  getting  now  the  food  for  her  life  during  the 
next  week.  He  made  her  copy  Baudelaire's  "Le  Balcon." 
Then  he  read  it  for  her.  His  voice  was  soft  and  caressing, 
but  growing  almost  brutal.  He  had  a  way  of  lifting  his  lips 
and  showing  his  teeth,  passionately  and  bitterly,  when  he 
was  much  moved.  This  he  did  now.  It  made  Miriam  feel 
as  if  he  were  trampling  on  her.  She  dared  not  look  at  him, 
but  sat  with  her  head  bowed.  She  could  not  understand  why 
he  got  into  such  a  tumult  and  fury.  It  made  her  wretched. 
She  did  not  like  Baudelaire,  on  the  whole— nor  Verlaine. 

"Behold  her  singing  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  highland  lass." 

That  nourished  her  heart.  So  did  "Fair  Ines."  And— 

"It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun." 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE 

These  were  like  herself.  And  there  was  he,  saying  in  his 
throat  bitterly: 

"Tu  te  rappeleras  la  beaute  des  caresses." 

The  poem  was  finished;  he'took  the  bread  out  of  the  1 
oven,  arranging  the  burnt  loaves  at  the  bottom  of  the 
panchion,  the  good  ones  at  the  top.  The  desiccated  loaf 
remained  swathed  up  in  the  scullery. 

"Mater  needn't  know  till  morning,"  he  said.  "It  won'c 
upset  her  so  much  then  as  at  night." 

Miriam  looked  in  the  bookcase,  saw  what  postcards  and 
letters  he  had  received,  saw  what  books  were  there.  She 
took  one  that  had  interested  him.  Then  he  turned  down  the 
gas,  and  they  set  off.  He  did  not  trouble  to  lock  the  door. 

He  was  not  home  again  until  a  quarter  to  eleven.  His 
mother  was  seated  in  the  rocking-chair.  Annie,  with  a  rope 
of  hair  hanging  down  her  back,  remained  sitting  on  a  low 
stool  before  the  fire,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  gloomily.  On 
the  table  stood  the  offending  loaf  unswathed.  Paul  entered 
rather  breathless.  No  one  spoke.  His  mother  was  reading 
the  little  local  newspaper.  He  took  off  his  coat,  and  went  to 
sit  down  on  the  sofa.  His  mother  moved  curtly  aside  to  let 
him  pass.  No  one  spoke.  He  was  very  uncomfortable.  Foi 
some  minutes  he  sat  pretending  to  read  a  piece  of  paper  he 
found  on  the  table.  Then  

"I  forgot  that  bread,  mother,"  he  said. 

There  was  no  answer  from  either  woman. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it's  only  twopence  ha'penny.  I  can  pay 
you  for  that." 

Being  angry  he  put  th.ee  pennies  on  the  table,  and  slH 
them  towards  his  mother.  She  turned  away  her  head.  Her 
mouth  was  shut  tightly. 

"Yes,"  said  Annie,  "you  don't  know  how  badly  mv  mother 
is!" 

The  girl  sat  staring  glumly  into  the  fire. 
"Why  is  she  badly?"  asked  Paul,  in  his  overbearing  way. 
"Well!"  said  Annie.  "She  could  scarcely  get  home." 
He  looked  closely  at  his  mother.  She  looked  ill. 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Why  could  you  scarcely  get  home?"  he  asked  her,  still 
sharply.  She  would  not  answer. 

"I  found  her  as  white  as  a  sheet  sitting  'here,"  said  Annie, 
with  a  suggestion  of  tears  in.her  voice. 

"Well,  why?"  insisted  Paul.  His  brows  were  knitting,  his 
eyes  dilating  passionately. 

"It  was  enough  to  upset  anybody,"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  "hug- 
ging those  parcels— meat,  and  green-groceries,  and  a  pair 
of  curtains  " 

"Well,  why  did  you  hug  them;  you  needn't  have  done." 

"Then  who  would?" 

"Let  Annie  fetch  the  meat." 

"Yes,  and  I  would  fetch  the  meat,  but  how  was  I  to  know? 
You  were  off  with  Miriam,  instead  of  being  in  when  my 
mother  came." 

"And  what  was  the  matter  with  you?"  asked  Paul  of  his 
mother. 

"I  suppose  it's  my  heart,"  she  replied.  Certainly  she  looked 
bluish  round  the  mouth. 

"And  have  you  felt  it  before?" 
"Yes— often  enough." 

"Then  why  haven't  you  told  me?— and  why  haven't  you 
seen  a  doctor?" 

Mrs.  Morel  shifted  in  her  chair,  angry  with  him  for  his 
hectoring. 

"You'd  never  notice  anything,"  said  Annie.  "You're  too 
eager  to  be  off  with  Miriam." 

"Oh,  am  I— and  any  worse  than  you  with  Leonard?" 

"/  was  in  at  a  quarter  to  ten." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  a  time. 

"I  should  have  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  bitterly,  "that 
she  wouldn't  have  occupied  you  so  entirely  as  to  burn  a 
whole  ovenful  of  bread." 

"Beatrice  was  here  as  wrell  as  she." 

"Very  likelv.  But  we  know  why  the  bread  is  spoilt." 

''Why?"  he  flashed. 

"Because  you  were  engrossed  with  Miriam,"  replied  Mrs. 
Morel  hotly. 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  24$ 

"Oh,  very  well— then  it  was  not\"  he  replied  angrily. 

He  was  distressed  and  wretched.  Seizing  a  paper,  he  began 
to  read.  Annie,  her  blouse  unfastened,  her  long  ropes  of  haij 
twisted  into  a  plait,  went  up  to  bed,  bidding  him  a  very  curt 
good-night. 

Paul  sat  pretending  to  read.  He  knew  his  mother  wanted 
to  upbraid  him.  He  also  wanted  to  know  what  had  made 
her  ill,  for  he  was  troubled.  So,  instead  of  running  away  to 
bed,  as  he  would  have  liked  to  do,  he  sat  and  waited.  There 
was  a  tense  silence.  The  clock  ticked  loudly. 

"You'd  better  go  to  bed  before  your  father  comes  in," 
said  the  mother  harshly.  "And  if  you're  going  to  have  any- 
thing to  eat,  you'd  better  get  it." 

"I  don't  want  anything." 

It  was  his  mother's  custom  to  bring  him  some  trifle  for 
supper  on  Friday  night,  the  night  of  luxury  for  the  colliers. 
He  was  too  angry  to  go  and  find  it  in  the  pantry  this  night. 
This  insulted  her. 

"If  I  wanted  you  to  go  to  Selby  on  Friday  night,  I  can 
imagine  the  scene,"  said  Mrs.  Morel.  "But  you're  never  too 
tired  to  go  if  she  will  come  for  you.  Nay,  you  neither  want 
to  eat  nor  drink  then." 

"I  can't  let  her  go  alone." 

"Can't  you?  And  why  does  she  come?" 

"Not  because  I  ask  her." 

"She  doesn't  come  without  you  want  her  " 

"Well,  what  if  I  do  want  her—"  he  replied. 
"Why,  nothing  if  it  was  sensible  or  reasonable.  But  to  go 
trapesing  up  there  miles  and  miles  in  the  mud,  coming  home 
at  midnight,  and  got  to  go  to  Nottingham  in  the  morn- 
ing—  " 

"If  I  hadn't,  you'd  be  just  the  same." 

"Yes,  I  should,  because  there's  no  sense  in  it.  Is  she  so 
fascinating  that  you  must  follow  her  all  that  way?"  Mrs. 
Morel  was  bitterly  sarcastic.  She  sat  still,  with  averted  face, 
stroking  with  a  rhythmic,  jerked  movement  the  black  sateen 
of  her  apron.  It  was  a  movement  that  hurt  Paul  to  see. 

"I  do  like  her,"  he  said,  "but — " 


250  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Like  her!"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  in  the  same  biting  tones.  "It 
seems  to  me  you  like  nothing  and  nobody  else.  There's 
neither  Annie,  nor  me,  nor  anyone  now  for  you." 

"What  nonsense,  mother— you  know  I  don't  love  her— I— 
I  tell  you  I  don't  love  her— she  doesn't  even  walk  with  my 
arm,  because  I  don't  want  her  to." 

"Then  why  do  you  fly  to  her  so  often!" 

"I  do  like  to  talk  to  her— I  never  said  I  didn't.  But  I  dortt 
love  her." 

"Is  there  nobody  else  to  talk  to?" 

"Not  about  the  things  we  talk  of.  There's  lots  of  things 

that  you're  not  interested  in,  that  " 

"What  things?" 

Mrs.  Morel  was  so  intense  that  Paul  began  to  pant. 

"Why— painting— and  books.  You  don't  care  about  Her- 
bert Spencer." 

<fNo,"  was  the  sad  reply.  "And  you  won't  at  my  age." 

"Well,  but  I  do  now— and  Miriam  does  — " 

"And  how  do  you  know,"  Mrs.  Morel  flashed  defiantly, 
"that  /  shouldn't?  Do  you  ever  try  me?", 

"But  you  don't,  mother,  you  know  you  don't  care  whether 
a  picture's  decorative  or  not;  you  don't  care  what  manner 
it  is  in." 

"How  do  you  know  I  don't  care?  Do  you  ever  try  me? 
Do  you  ever  talk  to  me  about  these  things,  to  try?" 

"But  it's  not  that  that  matters  to  you,  mother,  you  know 
it's  not." 

"What  is  it,  then— what  is  it,  then,  that  matters  to  me?" 
she  flashed.  He  knitted  his  brows  with  pain. 

"You're  old,  mother,  and  we're  young." 

He  only  meant  that  the  interests  of  her  age  were  not  the 
interests  of  his.  But  he  realized  the  moment  he  had  spoke 
that  he  had  said  the  wrong  thing. 

"Yes,  I  know  it  well— I  am  old.  And  therefore  I  may  stand 
aside;  I  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you.  You  only  want; 
me  to  wait  on  you— the  rest  is  for  Miriam." 

He  could  not  bear  it.  Instinctively  he  realized  that  he  was 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  25? 

life  to  her.  And,  after  all,  she  was  the  chief  thing  to  him, 
the  only  supreme  thing. 

.   "You  know  it  isn't,  mother,  you  know  it  isn't!" 
She  was  moved  to  pity  by  his  cry. 

"It  looks  a  great  deal  like  it,"  she  said,  half  putting  aside 
her  despair. 

"No,  mother— I  really  don't  love  her.  I  talk  to  her,  but  I 
want  to  come  home  to  you." 

He  had  taken  off  his  collar  and  tie,  and  rose,  bare-throatedr 
to  go  to  bed.  As  he  stooped  to  kiss  his  mother,  she  threw  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  cried, 
in  a  whimpering  voice,  so  unlike  her  own  that  he  writhed 
in  agony. 

"I  can't  bear  it.  I  could  let  another  woman—but  not  her. 
She'd  leave  me  no  room,  not  a  bit  of  room  " 

And  immediately  he  hated  Miriam  bitterly. 

"And  I've  never— you  know,  Paul— I've  never  had  a  hus- 
band—not really  — " 

He  stroked  his  mother's  hair,  and  his  mouth  was  on  her 
throat. 

"And  she  exults  so  in  taking  you  from  me— she's  not  like 
ordinary  girls." 

"Well,  I  don't  love  her,  mother,"  he  murmured,  bowing 
his  head  and  hiding  his  eyes  on  her  shoulder  in  misery.  His 
mother  kissed  him  a  long,  fervent  kiss. 

"My  boy!"  she  said,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  passionate 
love. 

Without  knowing,  he  gently  stroked  her  face. 

"There,"  said  his  mother,  "now  go  to  bed.  You'll  be  so 
tired  in  the  morning."  As  she  was  speaking  she  heard  her 
husband  coming.  "There's  your  father— now  go."  Suddenly 
she  looked  at  him  almost  as  if  in  fear.  "Perhaps  I'm  selfish. 
If  you  want  her,  take  her,  my  boy." 

His  mother  looked  so  strange,  Paul  kissed  her,  trembling. 

"Ha— mother!"  he  said  softly. 

Morel  came  in,  walking  unevenly.  His  hat  was  over  one 
corner  of  his  eye.  He  balanced  in  the  doorway. 


2  52  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"At  your  mischief  again?"  he  said  venomously. 
Mrs.  Morel's  emotion  turned  into  sudden  hate  of  the 
drunkard  who  had  come  in  thus  upon  her. 
"At  any  rate,  it  is  sober,"  she  said. 

"H'm-h'm!  h'm— h'm!"  he  sneered.  He  went  into  the 
passage,  hung  up  his  hat  and  coat.  Then  they  heard  him  go 
down  three  steps  to  the  pantry.  He  returned  with  a  piece 
of  pork-pie  in  his  fist.  It  was  what  Mrs.  Morel  had  bought 
for  her  son. 

"Nor  was  that  bought  for  you.  If  you  can  give  me  no 
more  than  twenty-five  shillings,  I'm  sure  I'm  not  going  to 
buy  you  pork-pie  to  stuff,  after  you've  swilled  a  bellyful 
cf  beer." 

"Wha-at— wha-at!"  snarled  Morel,  toppling  in  his  balance. 
"Wha-at— not  for  me?"  He  looked  at  the  piece  of  meat  and 
crust,  and  suddenly,  in  a  vicious  spurt  of  temper,  flung  it 
into  the  fire. 

Paul  started  to  his  feet. 

"Waste  your  own  stuff!"  he  cried. 

"What— what!"  suddenly  shouted  Morel,  jumping  up  and 
clenching  his  fist.  "I'll  show  yer,  yer  young  jockey!" 

"All  right!"  said  Paul  viciously,  putting  his  head  on  one 
side.  "Show  me!" 

He  would  at  that  moment  dearly  have  loved  to  have  a 
smack  at  something.  Morel  was  half  crouching,  fists  up, 
ready  to  spring.  The  young  man  stood,  smiling  with  his  lips. 

"Ussha!"  hissed  the  father,  swiping  round  with  a  great 
stroke  just  past  his  son's  face.  He  dared  not,  even  though  so 
close,  really  touch  the  young  man,  but  swerved  an  inch 
away. 

"Right!"  said  Paul,  his  eyes  upon  the  side  of  his  father's 
mouth,  where  in  another  instant  his  fist  would  have  hit.  He 
ached  for  that  stroke.  But  he  heard  a  faint  moan  from 
behind.  His  mother  was  deadly  pale,  dark  at  the  mouth. 
Morel  was  dancing  up  to  deliver  another  blow. 

"Father!"  said  Paul,  so  that  the  word  rang. 

Morel  started,  and  stood  at  attention. 

"Mother!"  moaned  the  boy.  "Mother!" 


STRIFE  IN  LOVE  25 J 

She  began  to  struggle  with  herself.  Her  open  eyes  watched 
him,  although  she  could  not  move.  Gradually  she  was  com- 
ing to  herself.  He  laid  her  down  on  the  sofa,  and  ran  up- 
stairs for  a  little  whisky,  which  at  last  she  could  sip.  The 
tears  were  hopping  down  his  face.  As  he  kneeled  in  front  of 
her  he  did  not  cry,  but  the  tears  ran  down  his  face  quickly. 
Morel,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  sat  with  his  elbows 
on  his  knees  glaring  across. 

"What's  a-matter  with  'er?"  he  asked. 

"Faint!"  replied  Paul. 

"H'm!" 

The  elderly  man  began  to  unlace  his  boots.  He  stumbled 
off  to  bed.  His  last  fight  was  fought  in  that  home. 

Paul  kneeled  there,  stroking  his  mother's  hand. 

"Don't  be  poorly,  mother— don't  be  poorly!"  he  said  time 
after  time. 

"It's  nothing,  my  boy,"  she  murmured. 

At  last  he  rose,  fetched  in  a  large  piece  of  coal,  and  raked 
the  fire.  Then  he  cleared  the  room,  put  everything  straight* 
laid  the  things  for  breakfast,  and  brought  his  mother's  candle. 

"Can  you  go  to  bed,  mother?" 

"Yes,  I'll  come." 

"Sleep  with  Annie,  mother,  not  with  him." 
"No.  I'll  sleep  in  my  own  bed." 
"Don't  sleep  with  him,  mother." 
"I'll  sleep  in  my  own  bed." 

She  rose,  and  he  turned  out  the  gas,  then  followed  her 
closely  upstairs,  carrying  her  candle.  On  the  landing  he 
kissed  her  close. 

"Good-night,  mother." 

"Good-night!"  she  said. 

He  pressed  his  face  upon  the  pillow  in  a  fury  of  misery. 
And  yet,  somewhere  in  his  soul,  he  was  at  peace  because  he 
still  loved  his  mother  best.  It  was  the  bitter  peace  of  resig- 
nation. 

The  efforts  of  his  father  to  conciliate  him  next  day  wer* 
a  great  humiliation  to  him. 
Everybody  tried  to  forget  the  scene. 


CHAPTER  IX 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM 


PAUL  was  dissatisfied  with  himself  and  with  everything. 
The  deepest  of  his  love  belonged  to  his  mother.  When  he 
felt  he  had  hurt  her,  or  wounded  his  love  for  her,  he  could 
not  bear  it.  Now  it  was  spring,  and  there  was  battle  between 
him  and  Miriam.  This  year  he  had  a  good  deal  against  her. 
She  was  vaguely  aware  of  it.  The  old  feeling  that  she  was  to 
be  a  sacrifice  to  this  love,  which  she  had  had  when  she 
prayed,  was  mingled  in  all  her  emotions.  She  did  not  at  the 
bottom  believe  she  ever  would  have  him.  She  did  not  believe 
in  herself  primarily:  doubted  whether  she  could  ever  be 
what  he  would  demand  of  her.  Certainly  she  never  saw  her- 
self living  happily  through  a  lifetime  with  him.  She  saw 
tragedy,  sorrow,  and  sacrifice  ahead.  And  in  sacrifice  she 
was  proud,  in  renunciation  she  was  strong,  for  she  did  not 
trust  herself  to  support  everyday  life.  She  was  prepared  for 
the  big  things  and  the  deep  things,  like  tragedy.  It  was  the 
sufficiency  of  the  small  day-life  she  could  not  trust. 

The  Easter  holidays  began  happily.  Paul  was  his  own 
frank  self.  Yet  she  felt  it  would  go  wrong.  On  the  Sunday 
afternoon  she  stood  at  her  bedroom  window,  looking  across 
at  the  oak-trees  of  the  wood,  in  whose  branches  a  twilight 
was  tangled,  below  the  bright  sky  of  the  afternoon.  Grey- 
green  rosettes  of  honeysuckle  leaves  hung  before  the  win- 
dow, some  already,  she  fancied,  showing  bud.  It  was  spring, 
which  she  loved  and  dreaded. 

Hearing  the  clack  of  the  gate  she  stood  in  suspense.  It 
was  a  bright  grey  day.  Paul  came  into  the  yard  with  his 
bicycle,  which  glittered  as  he  walked.  Usually  he  rang  his 
bell  and  laughed  towards  the  house.  Today  he  walked  with 
shut  lips  and  cold,  cruel  bearing,  that  had  something  of  a 

254 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  255 

slouch  and  a  sneer  in  it.  She  knew  him  well  by  now,  and 
could  tell  from  that  keen-looking,  aloof  young  body  of  his 
what  was  happening  inside  him.  There  was  a  cold  correct- 
ness in  the  way  he  put  his  bicycle  in  its  place,  that  made  her 
heart  sink. 

She  came  downstairs  nervously.  She  was  wearing  a  new 
net  blouse  that  she  thought  became  her.  It  had  a  high 
collar  with  a  tiny  ruff,  reminding  her  of  Mary,  Queen  of 
Scots,  and  making  her,  she  thought,  look  wonderfully 
a  woman,  and  dignified.  At  twenty  she  was  full-breasted 
and  luxuriously  formed.  Her  face  was  still  like  a  soft 
rich  mask,  unchangeable.  But  her  eyes,  once  lifted,  were 
wonderful.  She  was  afraid  of  him.  He  would  notice  her  new 
blouse. 

He,  being  in  a  hard,  ironical  mood,  was  entertaining  the 
family  to  a  description  of  a  service  given  in  the  Primitive 
Methodist  Chapel,  conducted  by  one  of  the  well-known 
preachers  of  the  sect.  He  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  his 
mobile  face,  with  the  eyes  that  could  be  so  beautiful,  shining 
with  tenderness  or  dancing  with  laughter,  now  taking  on 
one  expression  and  then  another,  in  imitation  of  various 
people  he  was  mocking.  His  mockery  always  hurt  her;  it 
was  too  near  the  reality.  He  was  too  clever  and  cruel.  She 
felt  that  when  his  eyes  were  like  this,  hard  with  mocking 
hate,  he  would  spare  neither  himself  nor  anybody  else.  But 
Mrs.  Leivers  was  wiping  her  eyes  with  laughter,  and  Mr. 
Leivers,  just  awake  from  his  Sunday  nap,  was  rubbing  his 
head  in  amusement.  The  three  brothers  sat  with  ruffled, 
sleepy  appearance  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  giving  a  guffaw  from 
time  to  time.  The  whole  family  loved  a  "take-off"  more  than 
anything. 

He  took  no  notice  of  Miriam.  Later,  she  saw  him  remark 
her  new  blouse,  saw  that  the  artist  approved,  but  it  won  from* 
him  not  a  spark  of  warmth.  She  was  nervous,  could  hardly 
reach  the  teacups  from  the  shelves. 

When  the  men  went  out  to  milk,  she  ventured  to  addren 
him  personally. 

"You  were  late,"  she  said. 


256  SONS  AND  XOVERS 

ctWas  I?1  he  answered. 
There  was  silence  for  a  while. 
"Was  it  rough  riding?"  she  asked. 
"I  didn't  notice  it." 

She  continued  quickly  to  lav  the  table.  When  she  had 
finished  

"Tea  won't  be  for  a  few  minutes.  Will  you  come  and 
look  at  the  daffodils?"  she  said. 

He  rose  without  answering.  They  went  out  into  the  back 
garden  under  the  budding  damson-trees.  The  hills  and  the 
skv  were  clean  and  cold.  Everything  looked  washed,  rather 
hard.  Miriam  glanced  at  Paul.  He  was  pale  and  impassive. 
It  seemed  cruel  to  her  that  his  eves  and  brows,  which  she 
loved,  could  look  so  hurting. 

"Has  the  wind  made  vou  tired?"  she  asked.  She  detected 
an  underneath  feeling  of  weariness  about  him. 

"No,  I  think  not,"  he  answered. 

"It  must  be  rough  on  the  road— the  wood  moans  so." 

"You  can  see  by  the  clouds  it's  a  south-west  wind;  that 
helps  me  here." 

"You  see,  I  don't  cycle,  so  I  don't  understand,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"Is  there  need  to  cycle  to  know  that?"  he  said. 

She  thought  his  sarcasms  were  unnecessary.  They  went 
forward  in  silence.  Round  the  wild,  tussockv  lawn  at  the 
back  of  the  house  was  a  thorn  hedge,  under  which  daffodils 
were  craning  forward  from  among  their  sheaves  of  grev- 
green  blades.  The  cheeks  of  the  flowers  were  greenish  with 
cold.  But  still  some  had  burst,  and  their  gold  ruffled  and 
glowed.  Miriam  went  on  her  knees  before  one  cluster,  took 
a  wild-looking  daffodil  between  her  hands,  turned  up  its 
face  of  gold  to  her,  and  bowed  down,  caressing  it  with  her 
mouth  and  cheeks  and  brow.  He  stood  aside,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  watching  her.  One  after  another  she  turned 
up  to  him  the  faces  of  the  yellow,  bursten  flowers  appeal- 
ingly,  fondling  them  lavishly  all  the  while. 

"Aren't  they  magnificent?"  she  murmured. 

"Magnificent!  it's  a  bit  thick— they're  pretty!" 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  257 

She  bowed  again  to  her  flowers  at  his  censure  of  her 
praise.  He  watched  her  crouching,  sipping  the  flowers  with 
fervid  kisses. 

"Why  must  you  always  be  fondling  things!"  he  said  ir- 
ritably. 

"But  I  love  to  touch  them,"  she  replied,  hurt. 

"Can  you  never  like  things  without  clutching  them  as 
if  you  wanted  to  pull  the  heart  out  of  them?  Why  don't  you 
have  a  bit  more  restraint,  or  reserve,  or  something?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  full  of  pain,  then  continued  slowly 
to  stroke  her  lips  against  a  ruffled  flower.  Their  scent,  as  she 
smelled  it,  was  so  much  kinder  than  he;  it  almost  made  her 
cry. 

"You  wheedle  the  soul  out  of  things,"  he  said.  "I  would 
never  wheedle— at  any  rate,  I'd  go  straight." 

He  scarcely  knew  what  he  was  saying.  These  things  came 
from  him  mechanically.  She  looked  at  him.  His  body  seemed 
one  weapon,  firm  and  hard  against  her. 

"You're  always  begging  things  to  love  you,"  he  said,  "as 
if  you  were  a  beggar  for  love.  Even  the  flowers,  you  have 
to  fawn  on  them  " 

Rhythmically,  Miriam  was  swaying  and  stroking  the 
flower  with  her  mouth,  inhaling  the  scent  which  ever  after 
made  her  shudder  as  it  came  to  her  nostrils. 

"You  don't  want  to  love— your  eternal  and  abnormal  crav- 
ing is  to  be  loved.  You  aren't  positive,  you're  negative.  Yo\> 
absorb,  absorb,  as  if  you  must  fill  yourself  up  with  love, 
because  you've  got  a  shortage  somewhere." 

She  was  stunned  by  his  cruelty,  and  did  not  hear.  He  had 
not  the  faintest  notion  of  what  he  was  saying.  It  was  as  if  his 
fretted,  tortured  soul,  run  hot  by  thwarted  passion,  jetted 
off  these  sayings  like  sparks  from  electricity.  She  did  not 
grasp  anything  he  said.  She  only  sat  crouched  beneath  his 
cruelty  and  his  hatred  of  her.  She  never  realized  in  a  flash. 
Over  everything  she  brooded  and  brooded. 

After  tea  he  stayed  with  Edgar  and  the  brothers,  taking 
no  notice  of  Miriam.  She,  extremely  unhappy  on  this  looked- 
for  holiday,  waited  for  him.  And  at  last  he  yielded  and  came 


258  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

to  her.  She  was  determined  to  track  this  mood  of  his  to  its 
origin.  She  counted  it  not  much  more  than  a  mood. 

"Shall  we  go  through  the  wood  a  little  way?"  she  asked 
him,  knowing  he  never  refused  a  direct  request. 

They  went  down  to  the  warren.  On  the  middle  path  they 
passed  a  trap,  a  narrow  horseshoe  hedge  of  small  fir-boughs, 
baited  with  the  guts  of  a  rabbit.  Paul  glanced  at  it  frowning. 
She  caught  his  eye. 

"Isn't  it  dreadful?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know!  Is  it  worse  than  a  weasel  with  its  teeth 
in  a  rabbit's  throat?  One  weasel  or  many  rabbits?  One  or  the 
other  must  go!" 

He  was  taking  the  bitterness  of  life  badly.  She  was  rather 
sorry  for  him. 

"We  will  go  back  to  the  house,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want 
to  walk  out." 

They  went  past  the  lilac-tree,  whose  bronze  leaf-buds 
were  coming  unfastened.  Just  a  fragment  remained  of  the 
haystack,  a  monument  squared  and  brown,  like  a*pillar  of 
stone.  There  was  a  little  bed  of  hay  from  the  last  cutting. 

"Let  us  sit  here  a  minute,"  said  Miriam. 

He  sat  down  against  his  will,  resting  his  back  against  the 
hard  wall  of  hay.  They  faced  the  amphitheatre  of  round 
hills  that  glowed  with  sunset,  tiny  wThite  farms  standing  out, 
the  meadows  golden,  the  woods  dark  and  yet  luminous,  tree- 
tops  folded  over  tree-tops,  distinct  in  the  distance.  The 
evening  had  cleared,  and  the  east  was  tender  with  a  magenta 
flush  under  which  the  land  lay  still  and  rich. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful?"  she  pleaded. 

But  he  only  scowled.  He  would  rather  have  had  it  ugl) 
just  then. 

At  that  moment  a  big  bull-terrier  came  rushing  up,  open- 
mouthed,  pranced  his  two  paws  on  the  youth's  shoulders, 
licking  his  face.  Paul  drew  back,  laughing.  Bill  was  a  great 
relief  to  him.  He  pushed  the  dog  aside,  but  it  came  leaping 
back. 

"Get  out,"  said  the  lad,  "or  I'll  dot  thee  one." 

But  the  dog  was  not  to  be  pushed  away.  So  Paul  had  a 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  259 

little  battle  with  the  creature,  pitching  poor  Bill  away  from 
him,  who,  however,  only  floundered  tumultuously  back 
again,  wild  with  joy.  The  two  fought  together,  the  man 
laughing  grudgingly,  the  dog  grinning  all  over.  Miriam 
watched  them.  There  was  something  pathetic  about  the 
man.  He  wanted  so  badly  to  love,  to  be  tender.  The  rough 
way  he  bowled  the  dog  over  was  really  loving.  Bill  got  up, 
panting  with  happiness,  his  brown  eyes  rolling  in  his  white 
face,  and  lumbered  back  again.  He  adored  Paul.  The  lad 
frowned. 

"Bill,  I've  had  enough  o'  thee,"  he  said. 

But  the  dog  only  stood  with  two  heavy  paws,  that  quiv- 
ered with  love,  upon  his  thigh,  and  flickered  a  red  tongue  at 
him.  He  drew  back. 

"No,"  he  said-"no-Fve  had  enough." 

And  in  a  minute  the  dog  trotted  off  happily,  to  vary  the 
fun. 

He  remained  staring  miserably  across  at  the  hills,  whose 
still  beauty  he  begrudged.  He  wanted  to  go  and  cycle  with 
Edgar.  Yet  he  had  not  the  courage  to  leave  Miriam. 

"Why  are  you  sad?"  she  asked  humbly. 

"I'm  not  sad;  why  should  I  be,"  he  answered.  "I'm  only 
normal." 

She  wondered  why  he  always  claimed  to  be  normal  when 
he  was  disagreeable. 

"But  what  is  the  matter?"  she  pleaded,  coaxing  him 
soothingly. 

"Nothing!" 

"Nay!"  she  murmured. 

He  picked  up  a  stick  and  began  to  stab  the  earth  with  it. 

"You'd  far  better  not  talk,"  he  said. 

"But  I  wish  to  know—"  she  replied. 

He  laughed  resentfully. 

"You  always  do,"  he  said. 

"It's  not  fair  to  me,"  she  murmured. 

He  thrust,  thrust,  thrust  at  the  ground  with  the  pointed 
stick,  digging  up  little  clods  of  earth  as  if  he  were  in  a  fever 
of  irritation.  She  gently  and  firmly  laid  her  hand  on  his  wrist. 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"Don't!"  she  said.  "Put  it  away." 

He  flung  the  stick  into  the  currant-bushes,  and  leaned 
back.  Now  he  was  bottled  up. 
"What  is  it?"  she  pleaded  softly. 

He  lay  perfectly  still,  only  his  eyes  alive,  and  they  full 
of  torment. 

"You  know,"  he  said  at  length,  rather  wearily— "you  know 
—we'd  better  break  off." 

It  was  what  she  dreaded.  Swiftly  everything  seemed  to 
darken  before  her  eyes. 

"Why!"  she  murmured.  "What  has  happened?" 

"Nothing  has  happened.  We  only  realize  where  we  are. 
It's  no  good  " 

She  waited  in  silence,  sadly,  patiently.  It  was  no  good 
being  impatient  with  him.  At  any  rate,  he  would  tell  her 
now  what  ailed  him. 

"We  agreed  on  friendship,"  he  went  on  in  a  dull,  monot- 
onous voice.  "How  often  have  we  agreed  for  friendship! 
And  yet— it  neither  stops  there,  nor  gets  anywhere  else." 

He  was  silent  again.  She  brooded.  What  did  he  mean? 
He  was  so  wearying.  There  was  something  he  would  not 
yield.  Yet  she  must  be  patient  with  him. 

"I  can  only  give  friendship— it's  all  I'm  capable  of— it's  a 
flaw  in  my  make-up.  The  thing  overbalances  to  one  side— 
I  hate  a  toppling  balance.  Let  us  have  done." 

There  was  warmth  of  fury  in  his  last  phrases.  He  meant 
she  loved  him  more  than  he  her.  Perhaps  he  could  not  love 
her.  Perhaps  she  had  not  in  herself  that  which  he  wanted. 
It  was  the  deepest  motive  of  her  soul,  this  self-mistrust.  It 
was  so  deep  she  dared  neither  realize  nor  acknowledge  it. 
Perhaps  she  was  sufficient.  Like  an  infinitely  subtle  shame,  it 
kept  her  always  back.  If  it  were  so,  she  would  do  without 
him.  She  would  never  let  herself  want  him.  She  would 
merely  see. 

"But  what  has  happened?"  she  said. 

"Nothing— it's  all  in  myself— it  only  comes  out  just  now. 
We're  always  like  this  towards  Easter-time." 

He  grovelled  so  helplessly,  she  pitied  him.  At  least  she 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM 


26l 


never  floundered  in  such  a  pitiable  way.  After  all,  it  was  he 
who  was  chiefly  humiliated. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked  him. 

"Why— I  musn't  come  often— that's  all.  Why  should  I 
monopolize  you  when  I'm  not—  You  see,  I'm  deficient  in 
something  with  regard  to  you  " 

He  was  telling  her  he  did  not  love  her,  and  so  ought  to 
leave  her  a  chance  with  another  man.  How  foolish  and  blind 
and  shamefully  clumsy  he  was!  What  were  other  men  to 
her!  What  were  men  to  her  at  all!  But  he,  ah!  she  loved  his 
soul.  Was  he  deficient  in  something?  Perhaps  he  was. 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  she  said  huskily.  "Yester- 
day " 

The  night  was  turning  jangled  and  hateful  to  him  as  the 
twilight  faded.  And  she  bowed  under  her  suffering. 

"I  know,"  he  cried,  "you  never  will!  You'll  never  believe 
that  I  can't— can't  physically,  any  more  than  I  can  fly  up  like 
a  skylark  " 

"What?"  she  murmured.  Now  she  dreaded. 

"Love  you." 

He  hated  her  bitterly  at  that  moment  because  he  made 
her  suffer.  Love  her!  She  knew  he  loved  her.  He  really  be- 
longed to  her.  This  about  not  loving  her,  physically,  bodily, 
was  a  mere  perversity  on  his  part,  because  he  knew  she  loved 
him.  He  was  stupid  like  a  child.  He  belonged  to  her.  His 
soul  wanted  her.  She  guessed  somebody  had  been  influencing 
him.  She  felt  upon  him  the  hardness,  the  foreignness  of  an- 
other influence. 

"What  have  they  been  saying  at  home?"  she  asked. 

"It's  not  that,"  he  answered. 

And  then  she  knew  it  was/ She  despised  them  for  their 
commonness,  his  people.  They  did  not  know  what  things 
were  really  worth. 

He  and  she  talked  very  little  more  that  night.  After  all 
he  left  her  to  cycle  with  Edgar. 

He  had  come  back  to  his  mother.  Hers  was  the  strongest 
tie  in  his  life.  When  he  thought  round,  Miriam  shrank  away. 
There  was  a  vague,  unreal  feel  about  her.  And  nobody  else 


262 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


mattered.  There  was  one  place  in  the  world  that  stood  solid 
and  did  not  melt  into  unreality:  the  place  where  his  mother 
was.  Everybody  else  could  grow  shadowy,  almost  non- 
existent to  him,  but  she  could  not.  It  was  as  if  the  pivot  and 
pole  of  his  life,  from  which  he  could  not  escape,  was  his 
mother. 

And  in  the  same  way  she  waited  for  him.  In  him  was  es- 
tablished her  life  now.  After  all,  the  life  beyond  offered  very 
little  to  Mrs.  Morel.  She  saw  that  our  chance  for  doing  is 
here,  and  doing  counted  with  her.  Paul  was  going  to  prove 
that  she  had  been  right;  he  was  going  to  make  a  man  whom 
nothing  should  shift  off  his  feet;  he  was  going  to  alter  the 
face  of  the  earth  in  some  way  which  mattered.  Wherever  he 
went  she  felt  her  soul  went  with  him.  Whatever  he  did  she 
felt  her  soul  stood  by  him,  ready,  as  it  were,  to  hand  him 
his  tools.  She  could  not  bear  it  when  he  was  with  Miriam. 
William  was  dead.  She  would  fight  to  keep  Paul. 

And  he  came  back  to  her.  And  in  his  soul  was  a  feeling  of 
the  satisfaction  of  self-sacrifice  because  he  was  faithful  to 
her.  She  loved  him  first;  he  loved  her  first.  And  yet  it  was 
not  enough.  His  new  young  life,  so  strong  and  imperious, 
was  urged  towards  something  else.  It  made  him  mad  with 
restlessness.  She  saw  this,  and  wished  bitterly  that  Miriam 
had  been  a  woman  who  could  take  this  new  life  of  his,  and 
leave  her  the  roots.  He  fought  against  his  mother  almost  as 
he  fought  against  Miriam. 

It  was  a  week  before  he  went  again  to  Willey  Farm. 
Miriam  had  suffered  a  great  deal,  and  was  afraid  to  see  him 
again.  Was  she  now  to  endure  the  ignominy  of  his  abandon- 
ing her?  That  would  only  be  superficial  and  temporary.  He 
would  come  back.  She  held  the  keys  to  his  soul.  But  mean- 
while, how  he  would  torture  her  with  his  battle  against 
her.  She  shrank  from  it. 

However,  the  Sunday  after  Easter  he  came  to  tea.  Mrs. 
Leivers  was  glad  to  see  him.  She  gathered  something  was 
fretting  him,  that  he  found  things  hard.  He  seemed  to  drift 
to  her  for  comfort.  And  she  was  good  to  him.  She  did  him 
that  great  kindness  of  treating  him  almost  with  reverence. 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  263 

He  met  her  with  the  young  children  in  the  front  garden. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come."  said  the  mother,  looking  at  him 
with  her  great  appealing  brown  eyes.  "It  is  such  a  sunny 
day.  I  was  just  going  down  the  fields  for  the  first  time  this 
year." 

He  felt  she  would  like  him  to  come.  That  soothed  him. 
They  went,  talking  simply,  he  gentle  and  humble.  He  could 
have  wept  with  gratitude  that  she  was  deferential  to  him. 
He  was  feeling  humiliated. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  Mow  Close  they  found  a  thrush's 
nest. 

"Shall  I  show  you  the  eggs?"  he  said. 

"Do!"  replied  Mrs.  Leivers.  "They  seem  such  a  sign  of 
spring,  and  so  hopeful." 

He  put  aside  the  thorns,  and  took  out  the  eggs,  holding 
them  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"They  are  quite  hot— I  think  we  frightened  her  off 
them,"  he  said. 

"Ay,  poor  thing!"  said  Mrs.  Leivers. 

Miriam  could  not  help  touching  the  eggs,  and  his  hand 
which,  it  seemed  to  her,  cradled  them  so  well. 

"Isn't  it  a  strange  warmth!"  she  murmured,  to  get  near 
him. 

"Blood  heat,"  he  answered. 

She  watched  him  putting  them  back,  his  body  pressed 
against  the  hedge,  his  arm  reaching  slowly  through  the 
thorns,  his  hand  folded  carefully  over  the  eggs.  He  was 
concentrated  on  the  act.  Seeing  him  so,  she  loved  him;  he 
seemed  so  simple  and  sufficient  to  himself.  And  she  could 
not  get  to  him. 

After  tea  she  stood  hesitating  at  the  bookshelf.  He  took 
Tartarin  de  Tarascon.  Again  they  sat  on  the  bank  of  hay 
at  the  foot  of  the  stack.  He  read  a  couple  of  pages,  but  with- 
out any  heart  for  it.  Again  the  dog  came  racing  up  to  repeat 
the  fun  of  the  other  day.  He  shoved  his  muzzle  in  the  man's 
chest.  Paul  fingered  his  ear  for  a  moment.  Thien  he  pushed 
him  away. 

"Go  away,  Bill,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want  you." 


264  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Bill  slunk  off,  and  Miriam  wondered  and  dreaded  what 
was  coming.  There  was  a  silence  about  the  youth  that  made 
her  still  with  apprehension.  It  was  not  his  furies,  but  his  quiet 
resolutions  that  she  feared. 

Turning  his  face  a  little  to  one  side,  so  that  she  could  not 
see  him,  he  began,  speaking  slowly  and  painfully: 

"Do  you  think— if  I  didn't  come  up  so  much— you  might 
get  to  like  somebody  else— another  man?" 

So  this  was  what  he  was  still  harping  on. 

"But  I  don't  know  any  other  men.  Why  do  you  ask?" 
she  replied,  in  a  low  tone  that  should  have  been  a  reproach 
to  him. 

"Why,"  he  blurted,  "because  they  say  I've  no  right  to 
come  up  like  this— without  we  mean  to  marry  " 

Miriam  was  indignant  at  anybody's  forcing  the  issues  be- 
tween them.  She  had  been  furious  with  her  own  father  for 
suggesting  to  Paul,  laughingly,  that  he  knew  why  he  came 
so  much. 

"Who  says?"  she  asked,  wondering  if  her  people  had 
anything  to  do  with  it.  They  had  not. 

"Mother— and  the  others.  They  say  at  this  rate  everybody 
will  consider  me  engaged,  and  I  ought  to  consider  myself 
so,  because  it's  not  fair  to  you.  And  I've  tried  to  find  out— 
and  I  don't  think  I  love  you  as  a  man  ought  to  love  his  wife. 
What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

Miriam  bowed  her  head  moodily.  She  was  angry  at  having 
this  struggle.  People  should  leave  him  and  her  alone. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  murmured. 

"Do  you  think  we  love  each  other  enough  to  marry?" 
he  asked  definitely.  It  made  her  tremble. 

"No,"  she  answered  truthfully.  "I  don't  think  so— we're 
too  young." 

"I  thought  perhaps,"  he  went  on  miserably,  "that  you, 
with  your  intensity  in  things,  might  have  given  me  more— 
than  I  could  ever  make  up  to  you.  And  even  now— if  you 
think  it  better— we'll  be  engaged." 

Now  Miriam  wanted  to  cry.  And  she  was  angry,  too.  He 
Was  always  such  a  child  for  people  to  do  as  they  liked  with. 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  265 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  she  said  firmly. 
He  pondered  a  minute.  * 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "with  me— I  don't  think  one  person 
would  ever  monopolize  me— be  everything  to  me— I  think 
never." 

This  she  did  not  consider. 

"No,"  she  murmured.  Then,  after  a  pause,  she  looked  at  ] 
him  and  her  dark  eyes  flashed. 

"This  is  your  mother,"  she  said.  "I  know  she  never  liked 
me. 

"No,  no,  it  isn't,"  he  said  hastily.  "It  was  for  your  sake 
she  spoke  this  time.  She  only  said,  if  I  was  going  on,  1  ought 
to  consider  myself  engaged."  There  was  a  silence.  "And  if 
I  ask  you  to  come  down  any  time,  you  won't  stop  away, 
will  you?" 

She  did  not  answer.  By  this  time  she  was  very  angry. 

"Well,  what  shall  we  do?"  she  said  shortly.  "I  suppose 
I'd  better  drop  French.  I  was  just  beginning  to  get  on  with 
it.  But  I  suppose  I  can  go  on  alone." 

"I  don't  see  that  we  need,"  he  said.  "I  can  give  you  a 
French  lesson,  surely." 

"Well— and  there  are  Sunday  nights.  I  shan't  stop  coming 
to  chapel,  because  I  enjoy  it,  and  it's  all  the  social  life  I 
get.  But  you've  no  need  to  come  home  with  me.  I  can  go 
alone." 

"All  right,"  he  answered,  rather  taken  aback.  "But  if  I 
ask  Edgar,  he'll  always  come  with  us,  and  then  they  can  say 
nothing." 

There  was  silence.  After  all,  then,  she  would  not  lose 
much.  For  all  their  talk  down  at  his  home  there  would  not 
be  much  difference.  She  wished  they  would  mind  their  own 
business. 

"And  you  won't  think  about  it,  and  let  it  trouble  you,  will 
you?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Miriam,  without  looking  at  him. 

He  was  silent.  She  thought  him  unstable.  He  had  no  fixity 
of  purpose,  no  anchor  of  righteousness  that  held  him. 

"Because,"  he  continued,  "a  man  gets  across  his  bicycle-  - 


266 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


and  goes  to  work— and  does  all  sorts  of  things.  But  a  woman 
broods."  * 

"No,  I  shan't  bother,"  said  Miriam.  And  she  meant  it. 

It  had  gone  rather  chilly.  They  went  indoors. 

"How  white  Paul  looks!"  Mrs.  Leivers  exclaimed. 
"Miriam,  you  shouldn't  have  let  him  sit  out  of  doors.  Do 
you  think  you've  taken  cold,  Paul?" 

"Oh  no!"  he  laughed. 

But  he  felt  done  up.  It  wore  him  out,  the  conflict  in  him- 
self. Miriam  pitied  him  now.  But  quite  early,  before  nine 
o'clock,  he  rose  to  go. 

"You're  not  going  home,  are  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Leivers 
anxiously. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "I  said  I'd  be  early."  He  was  very  awk- 
ward. 

"But  this  is  early,"  said  Mr.  Leivers. 

Miriam  sat  in  the  rocking-chair,  and  did  not  speak.  He 
hesitated,  expecting  her  to  rise  and  go  with  him  to  the  barn 
as  usual  for  his  bicycle.  She  remained  as  she  was.  He  was 
at  a  loss. 

"Well— good-night  all!"  he  faltered. 

She  spoke  her  good-night  along  with  all  the  others.  But 
as  he  went  past  the  window  he  looked  in.  She  saw  him  pale, 
his  brows  knit  slightly  in  a  way  that  had  become  constant 
with  him,  his  eyes  dark  with  pain. 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  doorway  to  wave  good-bye  to 
him  as  he  passed  through  the  gate.  He  rode  slowly  under 
the  pine-trees,  feeling  a  cur  and  a  miserable  wretch.  His 
bicycle  went  tilting  down  the  hills  at  random.  He  thought 
ic  would  be  a  relief  to  break  one's  neck. 

Two  days  later  he  sent  her  up  a  book  and  a  little  note, 
urging  her  to  read  and  be  busy. 

At  this  time  he  gave  all  his  friendship  to  Edgar.  He  loved 
the  family  so  much,  he  loved  the  farm  so  much;  it  was  the 
dearest  place  on  earth  to  him.  His  home  was  not  so  lovable. 
It  was  his  mother.  But  then  he  would  have  been  just  as 
happy  with  his  mother  anywhere.  Whereas  Willey  Farm 
he  loved  passionately.  He  loved  the  little  pokey  kitchen, 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  267 

where  men's  boots  tramped,  and  the  dog  slept  with  one  eye 
open  for  fear  of  being  trodden  on;  where  the  lamp  hung 
over  the  table  at  night,  and  everything  was  so  silent.  He 
loved  Miriam's  long,  low  parlour,  with  its  atmosphere  of 
romance,  its  flowers,  its  books,  its  high  rosewood  piano.  He 
loved  the  gardens  and  the  buildings  that  stood  with  their 
scarlet  roofs  on  the  naked  edges  of  the  fields,  crept  towards 
the  wood  as  if  for  cosiness,  the  wild  country  scooping  down 
a  valley  and  up  the  uncultured  hills  of  the  other  side.  Only  to 
be  there  was  an  exhilaration  and  a  joy  to  him.  He  loved  Mrs. 
Leivers,  with  her  unworldliness  and  her  quaint  cynicism;  he 
loved  Mr.  Leivers,  so  warm  and  young  and  lovable;  he  loved 
Edgar,  who  lit  up  when  he  came,  and  the  boys  and  the 
children  and  Bill— even  the  sow  Circe  and  the  Indian  game- 
cock called  Tippoo.  All  this  besides  Miriam.  He  could  not 
give  it  up. 

So  he  went  as  often,  but  he  was  usually  with  Edgar.  Only 
all  the  family,  including  the  father,  joined  in  charades  and 
games  at  evening.  And  later,  Miriam  drew  them  together, 
and  they  read  Macbeth  out  of  penny  books,  taking  parts. 
It  was  great  excitement.  Miriam  was  glad,  and  Mrs.  Leivers 
was  glad,  and  Mr.  Leivers  enjoyed  it.  Then  they  all  learned 
songs  together  from  tonic  sol-fa,  singing  in  a  circle  round 
the  fire.  But  now  Paul  was  very  rarely  alone  with  Miriam. 
She  waited.  When  she  and  Edgar  and  he  walked  home  to- 
gether from  chapel  or  from  the  literary  society  in  Bestwood, 
she  knew  his  talk,  so  passionate  and  so  unorthodox  nowadays, 
was  for  her.  She  did  envy  Edgar,  however,  his  cycling  with 
Paul,  his  Friday  nights,  his  days  working  in  the  fields.  For 
her  Friday  nights  and  her  French  lessons  were  gone.  She  was 
nearly  always  alone,  walking,  pondering  in  the  wood,  read- 
ing, studying,  dreaming,  waiting.  And  he  wrote  to  her  fre- 
quently. 

One  Sunday  evening  they  attained  to  their  old  rare  har- 
mony. Edgar  had  stayed  to  Communion— he  wondered  what 
it  was  like— with  Mrs.  Morel.  So  Paul  came  on  alone  with 
Miriam  to  his  home.  He  was  more  or  less  under  her  spell 
again.  As  usual,  they  were  discussing  the  sermon.  He  was 


268 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


setting  now  full  sail  towards  Agnosticism,  but  such  a  re- 
ligious Agnosticism  that  Miriam  did  not  suffer  so  badly.  They 
were  at  the  Renan  Vie  de  Jesus  stage.  Miriam  was  the 
threshing-floor  on  which  he  threshed  out  all  his  beliefs. 
While  he  trampled  his  ideas  upon  her  soul,  the  truth  came 
out  for  him.  She  alone  was  his  threshing-floor.  She  alone 
helped  him  towards  realization.  Almost  impassive,  she  sub- 
mitted to  his  argument  and  expounding.  And  somehow, 
because  of  her,  he  gradually  realized  where  he  was  wrong. 
And  what  he  realized,  she  realized.  She  felt  he  could  not  do 
without  her. 

They  came  to  the  silent  house.  He  took  the  key  out  of 
the  scullery  window,  and  they  entered.  All  the  time  he  went 
on  with  his  discussion.  He  lit  the  gas,  mended  the  fire,  and 
brought  her  some  cakes  from  the  pantry.  She  sat  on  the 
sofa,  quietly,  with  a  plate  on  her  knee.  She  wore  a  large 
white  hat  with  some  pinkish  flowers.  It  was  a  cheap  hat,  but 
he  liked  it.  Her  face  beneath  was  still  and  pensive,  golden- 
brown  and  ruddy.  Always  her  ears  were  hid  in  her  short 
curls.  She  watched  him. 

She  liked  him  on  Sundays.  Then  he  wore  a  dark  suit 
that  showed  the  lithe  movement  of  his  body.  There  was  a 
clean,  clear-cut  look  about  him.  He  went  on  with  his  think- 
ing to  her.  Suddenly  he  reached  for  a  Bible.  Miriam  liked  the 
way  he  reached  up— so  sharp,  straight  to  the  mark.  He  turned 
the  pages  quickly,  and  read  her  a  chapter  of  St.  John.  As  he 
sat  in  the  arm-chair  reading,  intent,  his  voice  only  thinking, 
she  felt  as  if  he  were  using  her  unconsciously  as  a  man  uses 
his  tools  at  some  work  he  is  bent  on.  She  loved  it.  And  the 
wistfulness  of  his  voice  was  like  a  reaching  to  something,  and 
it  was  as  if  she  were  what  he  reached  with.  She  sat  back  on 
the  sofa  away  from  him,  and  yet  feeling  herself  the  very 
instrument  his  hand  grasped.  It  gave  her  great  pleasure. 

Then  he  began  to  falter  and  to  get  self-conscious.  And 
when  he  came  to  the  verse,  "A  woman,  when  she  is  in 
travail,  hath  sorrow  because  her  hour  is  come,"  he  missed  it 
out.  Miriam  had  felt  him  growing  uncomfortable.  She  shrank 
"vhen  the  well-known  words  did  not  follow.  He  went  on 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  269 

reading,  but  she  did  not  hear.  A  grief  and  shame  made  her 
bend  her  head.  Six  months  ago  he  would  have  read  it  simply* 
Now  there  was  a  scotch  in  his  running  with  her.  Now  she 
felt  there  was  really  something  hostile  between  them,  some- 
thing of  which  they  were  ashamed. 

She  ate  her  cake  mechanically.  He  tried  to  go  on  with 
his  argument,  but  could  not  get  back  the  right  note.  Soon 
Edgar  came  in.  Mrs.  Morel  had  gone  to  her  friends'.  The 
three  set  off  to  Willey  Farm. 

Miriam  brooded  over  his  split  with  her.  There  was  some- 
thing else  he  wanted.  He  could  not  be  satisfied;  he  could 
give  her  no  peace.  There  was  between  them  now  always  a 
ground  for  strife.  She  wanted  to  prove  him.  She  believed 
that  his  chief  need  in  life  was  herself.  If  she  could  prove  it, 
both  to  herself  and  to  him,  the  rest  might  go;  she  could 
simply  trust  to  the  future. 

So  in  May  she  asked  him  to  come  to  Willey  Farm  and 
meet  Mrs.  Dawes.  There  was  something  he  hankered  after. 
She  saw  him,  whenever  they  spoke  of  Clara  Dawes,  rouse 
and  get  slightly  angry.  He  said  he  did  not  like  her.  Yet  he 
was  keen  to  know  about  her.  Well,  he  should  put  himself 
to  the  test.  She  believed  that  there  were  in  him  desires  for 
higher  things,  and  desires  for  lower,  and  that  the  desires  for 
the  higher  would  conquer.  At  any  rate,  he  should  try.  She 
forgot  that  her  "higher"  and  "lower"  were  arbitrary. 

He  was  rather  excited  at  the  idea  of  meeting  Clara  at 
Willey  Farm.  Ajrs.  Dawes  came  for  the  day.  Her  heavy, 
dun-coloured  hair  was  coiled  on  top  of  her  head.  She  wore 
a  white  blouse  and  navy  skirt,  and  somehow,  wherever  she 
was,  seemed  to  make  things  look  paltry  and  insignificant. 
When  she  was  in  the  room,  the  kitchen  seemed  too  small 
and  mean  altogether.  Miriam's  beautiful  twilighty  parlour 
looked  stiff  and  stupid.  All  the  Leivers  were  eclipsed  like 
candles.  They  found  her  rather  hard  to  put  up  with. 
Yet  she  was  perfectly  amiable,  but  indifferent,  and  rather 
hard. 

Paul  did  not  come  till  afternoon.  He  was  early.  As  he 
swung  off  his  bicycle,  Miriam  saw  him  look  round  at  the 


270  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

house  eagerly.  He  would  be  disappointed  if  the  visitor  Had 
not  come.  Miriam  went  out  to  meet  him,  bowing  her  head 
because  of  the  sunshine.  Nasturtiums  were  coming  out 
crimson  under  the  cool  green  shadow  of  their  leaves.  The 
girl  stood,  dark-haired,  glad  to  see  him. 
i     "Hasn't  Clara  come?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Miriam  in  her  musical  tone.  "She's  reading.'' 
He  wheeled  his  bicycle  into  the  barn.  He  had  put  on  a 
handsome  tie,  of  which  he  was  rather  proud,  and  socks  to 
match. 

"She  came  this  morning?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Miriam,  as  she  walked  at  his  side.  "You 
said  you'd  bring  me  that  letter  from  the  man  at  Liberty's- 
Have  you  remembered?" 

"Oh  dash,  no!"  he  said.  "But  nag  at  me  till  you  get  it." 

"I  don't  like  to  nag  at  you." 

"Do  it  whether  or  not.  And  is  she  any  more  agreeable?" 
he  continued. 

"You  know  I  always  think  she  is  quite  agreeable." 

He  was  silent.  Evidently  his  eagerness  to  be  early  today 
had  been  the  newcomer.  Miriam  already  began  to  suffer. 
They  went  together  towards  the  house.  He  took  the  clips 
off  his  trousers,  but  was  too  lazy  to  brush  the  dust  from  his 
shoes,  in  spite  of  the  socks  and  tie. 

Clara  sat  in  the  cool  parlour  reading.  He  saw  the  nape  of 
her  white  neck,  and  the  fine  hair  lifted  from  it.  She  rose,, 
looking  at  him  indifferently.  To  shake  hands  she  lifted  her 
arm  straight,  in  a  manner  that  seemed  at  once  to  keep  him 
at  a  distance,  and  yet  to  fling  something  to  him.  He  noticed 
how  her  breasts  swelled  inside  her  blouse,  and  how  her 
shoulder  curved  handsomely  under  the  thin  muslin  at  the 
top  of  her  arm. 

"You  have  chosen  a  fine  day,"  he  said. 

"It  happens  so,"  she  said'. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "I  am  glad." 

She  sat  down,  not  thanking  him  for  his  politeness. 
"What  have  you  been  doing  all  morning?"  asked  Paul 
of  Miriam. 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  '2  J I 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Miriam,  coughing  huskily,  "Clara 
only  came  with  father— and  so— she's  not  been  here  very 
long."       .  ' 

Clara  sat  leaning  on  the  table,  holding  aloof.  He  noticed 
her  hands  were  large,  but  well  kept.  And  the  skin  on  them 
seemed  almost  coarse,  opaque,  and  white,  with  fine  golden 
hairs.  She  did  not  mind  if  he  observed  her  hands.  She  in- 
tended to  scorn  him.  Her  heavy  arm  lay  negligently  on  the 
table.  Her  mouth  was  closed  as  if  she  were  offended,  and  she 
kept  her  face  slightly  averted. 

"You  were  at  Margaret  Bonford's  meeting  the  other  eve- 
ning," he  said  to  her. 

Miriam  did  not  know  this  courteous  Paul.  Clara  glanced 
at  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Why,"  asked  Miriam,  "how  do  you  know?" 
"I  went  in  for  a  few  minutes  before  the  train  came,"  he 
answered. 

Clara  turned  away  again  rather  disdainfully. 

"I  think  she's  a  lovable  little  woman,"  said  Paul. 

"Margaret  Bonford!"  exclaimed  Clara.  "She's  a  great  deal 
cleverer  than  most  men." 

"Well,  I  didn't  say  she  wasn't,"  he  said,  deprecating. 
"She's  lovable  for  all  that." 

"And  of  course,  that  is  all  that  matters,"  said  Clara  wither- 
ingly. 

He  rubbed  his  head,  rather  perplexed,  rather  annoyed. 

"I  suppose  it  matters  more  than  her  cleverness,"  he  said; 
"which,  after  all,  would  never  get  her  to  heaven." 

"It's  not  heaven  she  wants  to  get— it's  her  fair  share  on 
earth,"  retorted  Clara.  She  spoke  as  if  he  were  responsible 
for  some  deprivation  which  Miss  Bonford  suffered. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  thought  she  was  warm,  and  awfully 
nice— only  too  frail.  I  wished  she  was  sitting  comfortably  in 
peace  " 

"  'Darning  her  husband's  stockings,'  "  said  Clara  scath- 
ingly. 

"I'm  sure  she  wouldn't  mind  darning  even  my  stockings.5*' 


I*]!  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

he  said.  "And  I'm  sure  she'd  do  them  well.  Just  as  I  wouldn't 
mind  blacking  her  boots  if  she  wanted  me  to." 

But  Clara  refused  to  answer  this  sally  of  his.  He  talked  to 
Miriam  for  a  little  while.  The  other  woman  held  aloof. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  think  I'll  go  and  see  Edgar.  Is  he  on 
the  land?" 

"I  believe,"  said  Miriam,  "he's  gone  for  a  load  of  coal.  He 
tfiould  be  back  directly." 

"Then,"  he  said,  "I'll  go  and  meet  him." 

Miriam  dared  not  propose  anything  for  the  three  of  them. 
He  rose  and  left  them. 

On  the  top  road,  where  the  gorse  was  out,  he  saw  Edgar 
walking  lazily  beside  the  mare,  who  nodded  her  white- 
starred  forehead  as  she  dragged  the  clanking  load  of  coal. 
The  young  farmer's  face  lighted  up  as  he  saw  his  friend. 
Edgar  was  good-looking,  with  dark,  warm  eyes.  His  clothes 
were  old  and  rather  disreputable,  and  he  walked  with  con- 
siderable pride. 

"Hello!"  he  said,  seeing  Paul  bareheaded.  "Where  are 
you  going?" 

"Came  to  meet  you.  Can't  stand  'Nevermore.'  " 

Edgar's  teeth  flashed  in  a  laugh  of  amusement. 

"Who  is  'Nevermore'?"  he  asked. 

"The  lady— Mrs.  Dawes— it  ought  to  be  Mrs.  The  Raven 
that  quothed  'Nevermore' " 

Edgar  laughed  with  glee. 

"Don't  you  like  her?"  he  asked. 

"Not  a  fat  lot,"  said  Paul.  "Why,  do  you?" 

"No!"  The  answer  came  with  a  deep  ring  of  conviction. 
"No!"  Edgar  pursed  up  his  lips.  "I  can't  say  she's  much  in 
my  line."  He  mused  a  little.  Then:  "But  why  do  you  call 
her  'Nevermore'?"  he  asked. 

"Well,"  said  Paul,  "if  she  looks  at  a  man  she  says  haughtily 
'Nevermore,'  and  if  she  looks  at  herself  in  the  looking-glass 
she  says  disdainfully  'Nevermore,'  and  if  she  thinks  back 
she  says  it  in  disgust,  and  if  she  looks  forward  she  says  it 
cynically." 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  273 

Edgar  considered  this  speech,  failed  to  make  much  out  of 
it,  and  said,  laughing: 

"You  think  she's  a  man-hater?" 
"She  thinks  she  is,"  replied  Paul. 
"But  you  don't  think  so?" 
"No,"  replied  Paul. 
"Wasn't  she  nice  with  you,  then?" 

"Could  you  imagine  her  nice  with  anybody?"  asked  the 
young  man. 

Edgar  laughed.  Together  they  unloaded  the  coal  in  the 
yard.  Paul  was  rather  self-conscious,  because  he  knew  Clara 
could  see  if  she  looked  out  of  the  window.  She  didn't  look. 

On  Saturday  afternoons  the  horses  were  brushed  down 
and  groomed.  Paul  and  Edgar  worked  together,  sneezing 
with  the  dust  that  came  from  the  pelts  of  Jimmy  and  Flower. 

"Do  you  know  a  new  song  to  teach  me?"  said  Edgar. 

He  continued  to  work  all  the  time.  The  back  of  his  neck 
was  sun-red  when  he  bent  down,  and  his  fingers  that  held 
the  brush  were  thick.  Paul  watched  him  sometimes. 

"  'Mary  Morrison'?"  suggested  the  younger. 

Edgar  agreed.  He  had  a  good  tenor  voice,  and  he  loved 
to  learn  all  the  songs  his  friend  could  teach  him,  so  that  he 
could  sing  whilst  he  was  carting.  Paul  had  a  very  indifferent 
baritone  voice,  but  a  good  ear.  However,  he  sang  softly,  for 
fear  of  Clara.  Edgar  repeated  the  line  in  a  clear  tenor.  At 
times  they  both  broke  off  to  sneeze,  and  first  one,  then  the 
other,  abused  his  horse. 

Miriam  was  impatient  of  men.  It  took  so  little  to  amuse 
them— even  Paul.  She  thought  it  anomalous  in. him  that  h© 
could  be  so  thoroughly  absorbed  in  a  triviality. 

It  was  teatime  when  they  had  finished. 

"What  song  was  that?"  asked  Miriam. 

Edgar  told  her.  The  conversation  turned  to  singing. 

"We  have  such  jolly  times,"  Miriam  said  to  Clara. 

Mrs.  Dawes  ate  her  meal  in  a  slow,  dignified  way.  When- 
ever the  men  were  present  she  grew  distant. 

"Do  you  like  singing?"  Miriam  asked  her. 


274  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"If  it  is  good,"  she  said. 
Paul,  of  course,  coloured. 

"You  mean  if  it  is  high-class  and  trained?"  he  said. 

"I  think  a  voice  needs  training  before  the  singing  is  any- 
thing," she  said. 

"You  might  as  well  insist  on  having  people's  voices  trained 
before  you  allowed  them  to  talk,"  he  replied.  "Really,  people 
sing  for  their  own  pleasure,  as  a  rule." 

"And  it  may  be  for  other  people's  discomfort." 

"Then  the  other  people  should  have  flaps  to  their  ears," 
he  replied. 

The  boys  laughed.  There  was  silence.  He  flushed  deeply, 
and  ate  in  silence. 

After  tea,  when  all  the  men  had  gone  but  Paul,  Mrs. 
Leivers  said  to  Clara: 

"And  you  find  life  happier  now?" 

"Infinitely." 

"And  you  are  satisfied?" 
"So  long  as  I  can  be  free  and  independent." 
"And  you  don't  miss  anything  in  your  life?"  asked  Mrs. 
Leivers  gently. 

"I've  put  all  that  behind  me." 

Paul  had  been  feeling  uncomfortable  during  this  discourse. 
He  got  up. 

"You'll  find  you're  always  tumbling  over  the  things  you've 
put  behind  you,"  he  said.  Then  he  took  his  departure  to  the 
cowsheds.  He  felt  he  had  been  witty,  and  his  manly  pride 
was  high.  He  whistled  as  he  went  down  the  brick  track. 

Miriam  came  for  him  a  little  later  to  know  if  he  would 
go  with  Clara  and  her  for  a  walk.  They  set  off  down  to 
Strelley  Mill  Farm.  As  they  were  going  beside  the  brook, 
on  the  Willey  Water  side,  looking  through  the  brake  at  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  where  pink  campions  glowed  under  a 
few  sunbeams,  they  saw,  beyond  the  tree-trunks  and  the 
thin  hazel  bushes,  a  man  leading  a  great  bay  horse  through 
the  gullies.  The  big  red  beast  seemed  to  dance  romantically 
through  that  dimness  of  green  hazel  drift,  away  there  where 
the  air  was  shadowy,  as  if  it  were  in  the  past,  among  the 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  275 

fading  bluebells  that  might  have  bloomed  for  Deidre  of 
Iseult. 

The  three  stood  charmed. 

"What  a  treat  to  be  a  knight,"  he  said,  "and  to  have  a 
pavilion  here." 

"And  to  have  us  shut  up  safely?"  replied  Clara. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "singing  with  your  maids  at  your 
broidery.  I  would  carry  your  banner  of  white  and  greei> 
and  heliotrope.  I  would  have  'W.S.P.U.'  emblazoned  on  my 
shield,  beneath  a  woman  rampant." 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Clara,  "that  you  would  much 
rather  fight  for  a  woman  than  let  her  fight  for  herself." 

"I  would.  When  she  fights  for  herself  she  seems  like  a  dog 
before  a  looking-glass,  gone  into  a  mad  fury  with  its  own 
shadow." 

"And  you  are  the  looking-glass?"  she  asked,  with  a  curl 
of  the  lip. 

"Or  the  shadow,"  he  replied. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  too  clever." 

"Well,  I  leave  it  to  you  to  be  good"  he  retorted,  laugh- 
ing. "Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  just  let  me  be  clever." 

But  Clara  wearied  of  his  flippancy.  Suddenly,  looking  at 
her,  he  saw  that  the  upward  lifting  of  her  face  was  misery 
and  not  scorn.  His  heart  grew  tender  for  everybody.  He 
turned  and  was  gentle  with  Miriam,  whom  he  had  neglected 
till  then. 

At  the  wood's  edge  they  met  Limb,  a  thin,  swarthy  man 
of  forty,  tenant  of  Strelley  Mill,  which  he  ran  as  a  cattle- 
raising  farm.  He  held  the  halter  of  the  powerful  stallion 
indifferently,  as  if  he  were  tired.  The  three  stood  to  let  him 
pass  over  the  stepping-stones  of  the  first  brook.  Paul  admired 
that  so  large  an  animal  should  walk  on  such  springy  toes, 
with  an  endless  excess  of  vigour.  Limb  pulled  up  before 
them. 

"Tell  your  father,  Miss  Leivers,"  he  said,  in  a  peculiar 
piping  voice,  "that  his  young  beas'es  'as  broke  that  bottom 
fence  three  days  an'  runnin'." 

"Which?"  asked  Miriam,  tremulous. 


276  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

The  great  horse  breathed  heavily,  shifting  round  its  red 
flanks,  and  looking  suspiciously  with  its  wonderful  big  eyes 
upwards  from  under  its  lowered  head  and  falling  mane. 

"Come  along  a  bit,"  replied  Limb,  "an'  I'll  show  you." 

The  man  and  the  stallion  went  forward.  It  danced  side- 
ways, shaking  its  white  fetlocks  and  looking  frightened,  as 
it  felt  itself  in  the  brook. 

"No  hanky-pankyin',"  said  the  man  affectionately  to  the 
beast. 

It  went  up  the  bank  in  little  leaps,  then  splashed  finely 
through  the  second  brook.  Clara,  walking  with  a  kind  of 
sulky  abandon,  watched  it  half-fascinated,  half-contemptu- 
ous. Limb  stopped  and  pointed  to  the  fence  under  some 
willows. 

"There,  you  see  where  they  got  through,"  he  said.  "My 
man's  druv  'em  back  three  times." 

"Yes,"  answered  Miriam,  colouring  as  if  she  were  at  fault. 

"Are  you  comin'  in?"  asked  the  man. 

"No,  thanks;  but  we  should  like  to  go  by  the  pond." 

"Well,  just  as  you've  a  mind,"  he  said. 

The  horse  gave  little  whinnies  of  pleasure  at  being  so 
jiear  home. 

"He  is  glad  to  be  back,"  said  Clara,  who  was  interested 
in  the  creature. 

"Yes—'e's  been  a  tidy  step  today." 

They  went  through  the  gate,  and  saw  approaching  them 
from  the  big  farmhouse  a  smallish,  dark,  excitable-looking 
Woman  of  about  thirty-five.  Her  hair  was  touched  with  grey, 
her  dark  eyes  looked  wild.  She  walked  with  her  hands  behind 
her  back.  Her  brother  went  forward.  As  it  saw  her,  the  big 
bay  stallion  whinnied  again.  She  came  up  excitedly. 

"Are  you  home  again,  my  boy!"  she  said  tenderly  to  the 
horse,  not  to  the  man.  The  great  beast  shifted  round  to  her, 
ducking  his  head.  She  smuggled  into  his  mouth  the  wrinkled 
yellow  apple  she  had  been  hiding  behind  her  back,  then 
she  kissed  him  near  the  eyes.  He  gave  a  big  sigh  of  pleasure. 
She  held  his  head  in  her  arms  against  her  breast. 

"Isn't  he  splendid!"  said  Miriam  to  her. 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  277 

Miss  Limb  looked  up.  Her  dark  eyes  glanced  straight  at 
Paul. 

"Oh,  good-evening,  Miss  Leivers,"  she  said.  "It's  ages  since* 
you've  been  down." 

Miriam  introduced  her  friends. 

"Your  horse  is  a  fine  fellow!"  said  Clara. 

"Isn't  he!"  Again  she  kissed  him.  "As  loving  as  any  man!" 

"More  loving  than  most  men,  I  should  think,"  replied 
Clara. 

"He's  a  nice  boy!"  cried  the  woman,  again  embracing  the 
horse. 

Clara,  fascinated  by  the  big  beast,  went  up  to  stroke  his 
neck. 

"He's  quite  gentle,"  said  Miss  Limb.  "Don't  you  think 
big  fellows  are?" 

"He's  a  beauty!"  replied  Clara. 

She  wanted  to  look  in  his  eyes.  She  wanted  him  to  look 
at  her. 

"It's  a  pity  he  can't  talk,"  she  said. 
"Oh,  but  he  can— all  but,"  replied  the  other  woman. 
Then  her  brother  moved  on  with  the  horse. 
"Are  you  coming  in?  Do  come  in,  Mr.— I  didn't  catch  it." 
"Morel,"  said  Miriam.  "No,  we  won't  come  in,  but  we 
should  like  to  go  by  the  mill-pond." 
"Yes— yes,  do.  Do  you  fish,  Mr.  Morel?" 
"No,"  said  Paul. 

"Because  if  you  do  you  might  come  and  fish  any  time/ 
said  Miss  Limb.  "We  scarcely  see  a  soul  from  week's  end  t<r 
week's  end.  I  should  be  thankful." 

"What  fish  are  there  in  the  pond?"  he  asked. 

They  went  through  the  front  garden,  over  the  sluice,  and 
up  the  steep  bank  to  the  pond,  which  lay  in  shadow,  with 
its  two  wooded  islets.  Paul  walked  with  Miss  Limb. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  swimming  here,"  he  said. 

"Do,"  she  replied.  "Come  when  you  like.  My  brother 
will  be  awfully  pleased  to  talk  with  you.  He  is  so  quiet, 
because  there  is  no  one  to  talk  to.  Do  come  and  swim." 

Clara  came  up. 


278  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"It's  a  fine  depth,"  she  said,  "and  so  clear." 
"Yes,"  said  Miss  Limb. 

"Do  you  swim?"  said  Paul.  "Miss  Limb  was  just  saying 
we  could  come  when  we  liked." 

"Of  course  there's  the  farm-hands,"  said  Miss  Limb. 

They  talked  a  few  moments,  then  went  on  up  the  wild 
hill,  leaving  the  lonely,  haggard-eyed  woman  on  the  bank. 

The  hillside  was  all  ripe  with  sunshine.  It  was  wild  and 
mssocky,  given  over  to  rabbits.  The  three  walked  in  silence. 
Then: 

"She  makes  me  feel  uncomfortable,"  said  Paul. 
"You  mean  Miss  Limb?"  asked  Miriam.  "Yes." 
"What's  a  matter  with  her?  Is  she  going  dotty  with  being 
too  lonely?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miriam.  "It's  not  the  right  sort  of  life  for  her. 
I  think  it's  cruel  to  bury  her  there.  /  really  ought  to  go  and 
see  her  more.  But—she  upsets  me." 

"She  makes  me  feel  sorry  for  her— yes,  and  she  bothers 
me,"  he  said. 

"I  suppose,"  blurted  Clara  suddenly,  "she  wants  a  man." 

The  other  two  were  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

"But  it's  the  loneliness  sends  her  cracked,"  said  Paul. 

Clara  did  not  answer,  but  strode  on  uphill.  She  was  walk- 
ing with  her  head  hanging,  her  legs  swinging  as  she  kicked 
through  the  dead  thistles  and  the  tussocky  grass,  her  arms 
hanging  loose.  Rather  than  walking,  her  handsome  body 
seemed  to  be  blundering  up  the  hill.  A  hot  wave  went  over 
Paul.  He  was  curious  about  her.  Perhaps  life  had  been  cruel 
to  her.  He  forgot  Miriam,  who  was  walking  beside  him  talk- 
ing to  him.  She  glanced  at  him,  finding  he  did  not  answer 
her.  His  eyes  were  fixed  ahead  on  Clara. 

"Do  you  still  think  she  is  disagreeable?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  notice  that  the  question  was  sudden.  It  ran 
with  his  thoughts. 

"Something's  the  matter  with  her,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  answered  Miriam. 

They  found  at  the  top  of  the  hill  a  hidden  wild  field,  two 
sides  of  which  were  backed  by  the  wood,  the  other  sides  by 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  279 

high  loose  hedges  of  hawthorn  and  elder-bushes.  Between 
these  overgrown  bushes  were  gaps  that  the  cattle  might 
have  walked  through  had  there  been  any  cattle  now.  There 
the  turf  was  smooth  as  velveteen,  padded  and  holed  by  the 
rabbits.  The  field  itself  was  coarse,  and  crowded  with  tall, 
big  cowslips  that  had  never  been  cut.  Clusters  of  strong 
flowers  rose  everywhere  above  the  coarse  tussocks  of  bent. 
It  was  like  a  roadstead  crowded  with  tall,  fairy  shipping. 

"Ah!"  cried  Miriam,  and  she  looked  at  Paul,  her  dark  eyes 
dilating.  He  smiled.  Together  they  enjoyed  the  field  of 
flowers.  Clara,  a  little  way  off,  was  looking  at  the  cowslip? 
disconsolately.  Paul  and  Miriam  stayed  close  together,  talk- 
ing in  subdued  tones.  He  kneeled  on  one  knee,  quickly 
gathering  the  best  blossoms,  moving  from  tuft  to  tuft  rest- 
lessly, talking  softly  all  the  time.  Miriam  plucked  the  flowers 
lovingly,  lingering  over  them.  He  always  seemed  to  her  too 
quick  and  almost  scientific.  Yet  his  bunches  had  a  natural 
beauty  more  than  hers.  He  loved  them,  but  as  if  they  were 
his  and  he  had  a  right  to  them.  She  had  more  reverence  for 
them:  they  held  something  she  had  not. 

The  flowers  were  very  fresh  and  sweet.  He  wanted  to 
drink  them.  As  he  gathered  them,  he  ate  the  little  yellow 
trumpets.  Clara  was  still  wandering  about  disconsolately. 
Going  towards  her,  he  said: 

"Why  don't  you  get  some?" 

"I  don't  believe  in  it.  They  look  better  growing." 

"But  you'd  like  some?" 

"They  want  to  be  left." 

"I  don't  believe  they  do." 

"I  don't  want  the  corpses  of  flowers  about  me,"  she  said. 

"That's  a  stiff,  artificial  notion,"  he  said.  "They  don't  die 
any  quicker  in  water  than  on  their  roots.  And  besides,  the) 
look  nice  in  a  bowl— they  look  jolly.  x\nd  you  only  call  a 
thing  a  corpse  because  it  looks  corpse-like." 

"Whether  it  is  one  or  not?"  she  argued. 

"It  isn't  one  to  me.  A  dead  flower  isn't  a  corpse  of  a 
flower." 

Clara  now  ignored  him. 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"And  even  so— what  right  have  you  to  pull  them?"  she 
asked. 

"Because  I  like  them,  and  want  them— and  there's  plenty 
of  them." 

"And  that  is  sufficient?" 

"Yes.  Why  not?  I'm  sure  they'd  smell  nice  in  your  room 
in  Nottingham." 

"And  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of  watching  them  die." 

"But  then— it  does  not  matter  if  they  do  die." 

Whereupon  he  left  her,  and  went  stooping  over  the 
clumps  of  tangled  flowers  which  thickly  sprinkled  the  field 
like  pale,  luminous  foam-clots.  Miriam  had  come  close.  Clara 
»vas  kneeling,  breathing  some  scent  from  the  cowslips. 

"I  think,"  said  Miriam,  "if  you  treat  them  with  reverence 
you  don't  do  them  any  harm.  It  is  the  spirit  you  pluck  them 
in  that  matters." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "But  no,  you  get  'em  because  you  want 
'em,  and  that's  all."  He  held  out  his  bunch. 

Miriam  was  silent.  He  picked  some  more. 

"Look  at  these!"  he  continued;  "sturdy  and  lusty  like 
little  trees  and  like  boys  with  fat  legs." 

Clara's  hat  lay  on  the  grass  not  far  off.  She  was  kneeling, 
bending  forward  still  to  smell  the  flowers.  Her  neck  gave 
him  a  sharp  pang,  such  a  beautiful  thing,  yet  not  proud  of 
itself  just  now.  Her  breasts  swung  slightly  in  her  blouse. 
The  arching  curve  of  her  back  was  beautiful  and  strong; 
she  wore  no  stays.  Suddenly,  without  knowing,  he  was  scat- 
tering a  handful  of  cowslips  over  her  hair  and  neck,  saying: 

"Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  to  dust, 
If  the  Lord  won't  have  you  the  devil  must." 

The  chill  flowers  fell  on  her  neck.  She  looked  up  at  him 
with  almost  pitiful,  scared  grey  eyes,  wondering  what  he 
tvas  doing.  Flowers  fell  on  her  face,  and  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Suddenly,  standing  there  above  her,  he  felt  awkward. 

"I  thought  you  wanted  a  funeral,"  he  said,  ill  at  ease. 

Clara  laughed  strangely,  and  rose,  picking  the  cowslips 
Jtrom  her  hair.  She  took  up  her  hat  and  pinned  it  on.  One 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM 


28r 


flower  had  remained  tangled  in  her  hair.  He  saw,  but  would 
not  tell  her.  He  gathered  up  the  flowers  he  had  sprinkled 
over  her. 

At  the  edge  of  the  wood  the  bluebells  had  flowed  over 
into  the  field  and  stood  there  like  flood-water.  But  they  were 
fading  now.  Clara  strayed  up  to  them.  He  wandered  after 
her.  The  bluebells  pleased  him. 

"Look  how  they've  come  out  of  the  wood!"  he  said. 

Then  she  turned  with  a  flash  of  warmth  and  of  gratitude. 

"Yes,"  she  smiled. 

His  blood  beat  up. 

"It  makes  me  think  of  the  wild  men  of  the  woods,  how 
terrified  they  would  be  when  they  got  breast  to  breast  with 
the  open  space." 

"Do  you  think  they  were?"  she  asked. 

"I  wonder  which  was  more  frightened  among  old  tribes— 
those  bursting  out  of  their  darkness  of  woods  upon  all  the 
space  of  light,  or  those  from  the  open  tip-toeing  into  the 
forests."  N 

"I  should  think  the  second,"  she  answered. 

"Yes,  you  do  feel  like  one  of  the  open  space  sort,  trying 
to  force  yourself  into  the  dark,  don't  you?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  she  answered  queerly. 

The  conversation  ended  there. 

The  evening  was  deepening  over  the  earth.  Already  the 
valley  was  full  of  shadow.  One  tiny  square  of  light  stood 
opposite  at  Crossleigh  Bank  Farm.  Brightness  was  swimming 
on  the  tops  of  the  hills.  Miriam  came  up  slowly,  her  face  in 
her  big,  loose  bunch  of  flowers,  walking  ankle-deep  through 
the  scattered  froth  of  the  cowslips.  Beyond  her  the  trees 
were  coming  into  shape,  all  shadow. 

"Shall  we  go?"  she  asked. 

And  the  three  turned  away.  They  were  all  silent.  Going 
down  the  path  they  could  see  the  light  of  home  right  across^ 
and  on  the  ridge  of  the  hill  a  thin  dark  outline  with  little 
lights,  where  the  colliery  village  touched  the  sky. 

"It  has  been  nice,  hasn't  it?"  he  asked. 

Miriam  murmured  assent.  Clara  was  silent. 


282 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"Don't  you  think  so?"  he  persisted. 

But  she  walked  with  her  head  up,  and  still  did  not  answer. 
He  could  tell  by  the  way  she  moved,  as  if  she  didn't  care, 
that  she  suffered. 

At  this  time  Paul  took  his  mother  to  Lincoln.  She  was 
bright  and  enthusiastic  as  ever,  but  as  he  sat  opposite  her  in 
the  railway  carriage,  she  seemed  to  look  frail.  He  had  a 
momentary  sensation  as  if  she  were  slipping  away  from  him. 
Then  he  wanted  to  get  hold  of  her,  to  fasten  her,  almost  to 
:hain  her.  He  felt  he  must  keep  hold  of  her  with  his  hand. 

They  drew  near  to  the  city.  Both  were  at  the  window 
looking  for  the  cathedral, 

"There  she  is,  mother!"  he  cried. 

They  saw  the  great  cathedral  lying  couchant  above  the 
plain. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed.  "So  she  is!" 

He  looked  at  his  mother,  Her  blue  eyes  were  watching 
the  cathedral  quietly,  She  seemed  again  to  be  beyond  him. 
Something  in  the  eternal  repose  of  the  uplifted  cathedral, 
blue  and  noble  against  the  sky,  was  reflected  in  her,  some- 
thing of  the  fatality,,  What  was,  was.  With  all  his  young  will 
he  could  not  alter  k.  He  saw  her  face,  the  skin  still  fresh 
and  pink  and  downy,  but  crow's-feet  near  her  eyes,  her  eye- 
lids steady,  sinking  a  little,  her  mouth  always  closed  with 
disillusion;  and  there  was  on  her  the  same  eternal  look,  as  if 
she  knew  fate  at  last.  He  beat  against  it  with  all  the  strength 
of  his  soul. 

"Look,  mother,  how  big  she  is  above  the  town!  Think, 
there  are  streets  and  streets  below  her!  She  looks  bigger  than 
the  city  altogether.'9 

"So  she  does!"  exclaimed  his  mother,  breaking  bright  into 
life  again.  But  he  had  seen  her  sitting,  looking  steady  out  of 
the  window  at  the  cathedral,  her  face  and  eyes  fixed,  reflect- 
ing the  relentlessness  of  life.  And  the  crow's-feet  near  her 
eyes,  and  her  mouth  shut  so  hard,  made  him  feel  he  would 
go  mad. 

They  ate  a  meal  that  she  considered  wildly  extravagant. 
"DorA  imagine  I  like  it,"  she  said,  as  she  ate  her  cutlet. 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  283 

"I  dorft  like  it,  I  really  don't!  Just  think  of  your  money 
wasted!" 

"You  never  mind  my  money,"  he  said.  "You  forget  I'm 
a  fellow  taking  his  girl  for  an  outing." 

And  he  bought  her  some  blue  violets. 

"Stop  it  at  once,  sir!"  she  commanded.  "How  can  I  do  it?" 

"You've  got  nothing  to  do.  Stand  still!" 

And  in  the  middle  of  High  Street  he  stuck  the  flowers 
in  her  coat. 

"An  old  thing  like  me! "  she  said,  sniffing. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "I  want  people  to  think  we're  awful 
swells.  So  look  ikey." 

"I'll  jowl  your  head,"  she  laughed. 

"Strut!"  he  commanded.  "Be  a  fantail  pigeon." 

It  took  him  an  hour  to  get  her  through  the  street.  She 
stood  above  Glory  Hole,  she  stood  before  Stone  Bow,  she 
stood  everywhere,  and  exclaimed. 

A  man  came  up,  took  off  his  hat,  and  bowed  to  her. 

"Can  I  show  you  the  town,  madam?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  answered.  "I've  got  my  son." 

Then  Paul  was  cross  with  her  for  not  answering  with 
more  dignity. 

"You  go  away  with  you!"  she  exclaimed.  "Ha!  that's  the 
Jew's  House.  Now,  do  you  remember  that  lecture, 
Paul-?" 

But  she  could  scarcely  climb  the  cathedral  hill.  He  did 
not  notice.  Then  suddenly  he  found  her  unable  to  speak. 
He  took  her  into  a  little  public-house,  where  she  rested. 

"It's  nothing,"  she  said.  "My  heart  is  only  a  bit  old;  one 
must  expect  it." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  looked  at  her.  Again  his  heart  was 
crushed  in  a  hot  grip.  He  wanted  to  cry,  he  wanted  to  smash 
things  in  fury. 

They  set  off  again,  pace  by  pace,  so  slowly.  And  every 
step  seemed  like  a  weight  on  his  chest.  He  felt  as  if  his  heart 
would  burst.  At  last  they  came  to  the  top.  She  stood  en- 
chanted, looking  at  the  castle  gate,  looking  at  the  cathedral 
front.  She  had  quite  forgotten  herself. 


2  84  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Now  this  is  better  than  I  thought  it  could  be!"  she  cried. 

But  he  hated  it.  Everywhere  he  followed  her,  brooding. 
They  sat  together  in  the  cathedral.  They  attended  a  little 
service  in  the  choir.  She  was  timid. 

"I  suppose  it  is  open  to  anybody?"  she  asked  him. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "Do  you  think  they'd  have  the  damned 
cheek  to  send  us  away." 

"Well,  I'm  sure,"  she  exclaimed,  "they  would  if  they1 
heard  your  language." 

Her  face  seemed  to  shine  again  with  joy  and  peace  during 
the  service.  And  all  the  time  he  was  wanting  to  rage  and 
smash  things  and  cry. 

Afterwards,  when  they  were  leaning  over  the  wall,  look- 
ing at  the  town  below,  he  blurted  suddenly: 

"Why  can't  a  man  have  a  young  mother?  What  is  she 
old  for?" 

"Well,"  his  mother  laughed,  "she  can  scarcely  help  it." 

"And  why  wasn't  I  the  oldest  son?  Look— they  say  the 
young  ones  have  the  advantage— but  look,  they  had  the 
young  mother.  You  should  have  had  me  for  your  eldest  son." 

"/  didn't  arrarlge  it,"  she  remonstrated.  "Come  to  consider, 
you're  as  much  to  blame  as  me." 

He  turned  on  her,  white,  his  eyes  furious. 

"What  are  you  old  for!"  he  said,  mad  with  his  impotence. 
"Why  can't  you  walk?  Why  can't  you  come  with  me  to 
places?" 

"At  one  time,"  she  replied,  "I  could  have  run  up  that  hill 
a  good  deal  better  than  you." 

"What's  the  good  of  that  to  meV  he  cried,  hitting  his  fist 
on  the  wall.  Then  he  became  plaintive.  "It's  too  bad  of  you 
to  be  ill.  Little,  it  is  " 

"111!"  she  cried.  "I'm  a  bit  old,  and  you'll  have  to  put  up 
with  it,  that's  all." 

They  were  quiet.  But  it  was  as  much  as  they  could  bear. 
They  got  jolly  again  over  tea.  As  they  sat  by  Brayford, 
watching  the  boats,  he  told  her  about  Clara.  His  mother 
asked  him  innumerable  questions. 

"Then  who  does  she  live  with?" 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  285 

"With  her  mother,  on  Bluebell  Hill." 

"And  have  they  enough  to  keep  them?" 

aI  don't  think  so.  I  think  they  do  lace  work." 

"And  wherein  lies  her  charm,  my  boy?" 

"I  don't  know  that  she's  charming*  mother.  But  she's  nice 
And  she  seems  straight,  you  know— not  a  bit  deep,  not  a  bit." 

"But  she's  a  good  deal  older  than  you." 

"She's  thirty,  I'm  going  of  twenty-three." 

"You  haven't  told  me  what  you  like  her  for." 

"Because  I  don't  know— a  sort  of  defiant  way  she's  got- 
&  sort  of  angry  way." 

Mrs.  Morel  considered.  She  would  have  been  glad  now 
for  her  son  to  fall  in  love  with  some  woman  who  would— 
she  did  not  know  what.  But  he  fretted  so,  got  so  furious 
suddenly,  and  again  was  melancholic.  She  wished  he  knew 
some  nice  woman—  She  did  not  know  what  she  wished,  but 
left  it  vague.  At  any  rate  she  was  not  hostile  to  the  idea  of 
Clara. 

Annie,  too,  was  getting  married.  Leonard  had  gone  away 
to  work  in  Birmingham.  One  week-end  when  he  was  hom€ 
she  had  said  to  him: 

"You  don't  look  very  well,  my  lad." 

"I  dunno,"  he  said.  "I  feel  anyhow  or  nohow,  ma." 

He  called  her  "ma"  already  in  his  boyish  fashion. 

"Are  you  sure  they're  good  lodgings?"  she  asked. 

"Yes— yes.  Only— it's  a  winder  when  you  have  to  pour 
your  own  tea  out— an'  nobody  to  grouse  if  you  team  it  in 
your  saucer  and  sup  it  up.  It  somehow  takes  a'  the  taste  out 
of  it." 

,  Mrs.  Morel  laughed. 
-   "And  so  it  knocks  you  up?"  she  said. 

"I  dunno.  I  want  to  get  married,"  he  blurted,  twisting 
his  fingers  and  looking  down  at  his  boots.  There  was  a 
silence. 

"But,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  thought  you  said  you'd  wait 
another  year." 

"Yes,  I  did  say  so,"  he  replied  stubbornly. 
Again  she  considered. 


3«6 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"And  you  know,"  she  said,  "Annie's  a  bit  of  a  spend- 
thrift. She's  saved  no  more  than  eleven  pounds.  And  I  know, 
lad,  you  haven't  had  much  chance." 

He  coloured  up  to  the  ears. 

"I've  got  thirty-three  quid,"  he  said. 

"It  doesn't  go  far,"  she  answered. 

He  said  nothing,  but  twisted  his  fingers. 

"And  you  know,"  she  said,  "I've  nothing  " 

"I  didn't  want,  ma!"  he  cried,  very  red,  suffering  and 
remonstrating. 

"No,  my  lad,  I  know.  I  was  only  wishing  I  had.  And  take 
away  five  pounds  for  the  wedding  and  things— it  leaves 
twenty-nine  pounds.  You  won't  do  much  on  that." 

He  twisted  still,  impotent,  stubborn,  not  looking  up. 

"But  do  you  really  want  to  get  married?"  she  asked.  "Do 
you  feel  as  if  you  ought?" 

He  gave  her  one  straight  look  from  his  blue  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Then,"  she  replied,  "we  must  all  do  the  best  we  can  for 
it,  lad." 

The  next  time  he  looked  up  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 
"I  don't  want  Annie  to  feel  handicapped,"  he  said,  strug- 
gling. 

"My  lad,"  she  said,  "you're  steady— you've  got  a  decent 
place.  If  a  man  had  needed  me  I'd  have  married  him  on  his 
last  week's  wages.  She  may  find  it  a  bit  hard  to  start  humbly. 
Young  girls  are  like  that.  They  look  forward  to  the  fine 
home  they  think  they'll  have.  But  /  had  expensive  furniture. 
It's  not  everything." 

So  the  wedding  took  place  almost  immediately.  Arthur 
came  home,  and  was  splendid  in  uniform.  Annie  looked  nice- 
in  a  dove-grey  dress  that  she  could  take  for  Sundays.  Morel 
called  her  a  fool  for  getting  married,  and  was  cool  with  his 
.son-in-law.  Mrs.  Morel  had  white  tips  in  her  bonnet,  and 
some  white  on  her  blouse,  and  was  teased  by  both  her  sons 
for  fancying  herself  so  grand.  Leonard  was  jolly  and  cordial, 
and  felt  a  fearful  fool.  Paul  could  not  quite  see  what  Annie 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  287 

wanted  to  get  married  for.  He  was  fond  of  her,  and  she  of 
him.  Still,  he  hoped  rather  lugubriously  that  it  would  turn 
out  all  right.  Arthur  was  astonishingly  handsome  in  his  scar- 
let and  yellow,  and  he  knew  it  well,  but  was  secretly  ashamed 
of  the  uniform.  Annie  cried  her  eyes  up  in  the  kitchen,  on 
leaving  her  mother.  Mrs.  Morel  cried  a  little,  then  patted 
her  on  the  back  and  said: 

"But  don't  cry,  child,  he'll  be  good  to  you." 

Morel  stamped  and  said  she  was  a  fool  to  go  and  tie  her- 
self up.  Leonard  looked  white  and  overwrought.  Mrs.  More] 
said  to  him: 

"I  s'll  trust  her  to  you,  my  lad,  and  hold  you  responsible 
for  her." 

"You  can,"  he  said,  nearly  dead  with  the  ordeal.  And  it 
was  all  over. 

When  Morel  and  Arthur  were  in  bed,  Paul  sat  talking,  as 
he  often  did,  with  his  mother. 

"You're  not  sorry  she's  married,  mother,  are  you?"  he 
asked. 

"I'm  not  sorry  she's  married— but—it  seems  strange  that 
she  should  go  from  me.  It  even  seems  to  me  hard  that  she 
can  prefer  to  go  with  her  Leonard.  That's  how  mothers  are 
—I  know  it's  silly." 

"And  shall  you  be  miserable  about  her?" 

"When  I  think  of  my  own  wedding  day,"  his  mother  an- 
swered, "I  can  only  hope  her  life  will  be  different." 

"But  you  can  trust  him  to  be  good  to  her?" 

"Yes,  yes.  They  say  he's  not  good  enough  for  her.  But 
I  say  if  a  man  is  genuine,  as  he  is,  and  a  girl  is  fond  of  him— 
then— it  should  be  all  right.  He's  as  good  as  she." 

"So  you  don't  mind?" 

"I  would  never  have  let  a  daughter  of  mine  marry  a  man 
I  didn't  feel  to  be  genuine  through  and  through.  And  yet, 
there's  the  gap  now  she's  gone." 

They  were  both  miserable,  and  wanted  her  back  again. 
It  seemed  to  Paul  his  mother  looked  lonely,  in  her  new  black 
silk  blouse  with  its  bit  of  white  trimming. 


zS8 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


"At  any  rate,  mother,  I  s'll  never  marry,"  he  said. 

"Ay,  they  all  say  that,  my  lad.  You've  not  met  the  one 
yet.  Only  wait  a  year  or  two." 

"But  I  shan't  marry,  mother.  I  shall  live  with  you,  and 
we'll  have  a  servant." 

"Ay,  my  lad,  it's  easy  to  talk.  We'll  see  when  the  time 
comes." 

"What  time?  I'm  nearly  twenty-three." 

"Yes,  you're  not  one  that  would  marry  young.  But  in 
three  years'  time  " 

"I  shall  be  with  you  just  the  same." 

"We'll  see,  my  boy,  we'll  see." 

"But  you  don't  want  me  to  marry?" 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  think  of  you  going  through  your  life 
without  anybody  to  care  for  you  and  do— no." 

"And  you  think  I  ought  to  marry?" 

"Sooner  or  later  every  man  ought." 

"But  you'd  rather  it  were  later." 

"It  would  be  hard— and  very  hard.  It's  as  they  say: 

"  'A  son's  my  son  till  he  takes  him  a  wife, 

But  my  daughter's  my  daughter  the  whole  of  her  life.'  " 

"And  you  think  I'd  let  a  wife  take  me  from  you?" 

"Well,  you  wouldn't  ask  her  to  marry  your  mother  as 
well  as  you,"  Mrs.  Morel  smiled. 

"She  could  do  what  she  liked;  she  wouldn't  have  to  inter- 
fere." 

"She  wouldn't— till  she'd  got  you— and  then  you'd  see." 
"I  never  will  see.  I'll  never  marry  while  I've  got  you— I 
won't." 

"But  I  shouldn't  like  to  leave  you  with  nobody,  my  boy," 
bhe  cried. 

"You're  not  going  to  leave  me.  What  are  you?  Fifty- 
three!  I'll  give  you  till  seventy-five.  There  you  are,  I'm  fat 
and  forty-four.  Then  I'll  marry  a  staid  body.  See!" 

His  mother  sat  and  laughed. 

"Go  to  bed,"  she  said-"go  to  bed." 

"And  we'll  have  a  pretty  house,  you  and  me,  and  a  servant, 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  289 

and  it'll  be  just  all  right.  I  s'll  perhaps  be  rich  with  my 
painting." 

"Will  you  go  to  bed!" 

"And  then  you  s'll  have  a  pony-carriage.  See  yourself— a 
little  Queen  Victoria  trotting  round." 

"I  tell  you  to  go  to  bed,"  she  laughed. 

He  kissed  her  and  went.  His  plans  for  the  future  were 
always  the  same. 

Mrs.  Morel  sat  brooding— about  her  daughter,  about  Paul, 
about  Arthur.  She  fretted  at  losing  Annie.  The  family  was 
very  closely  bound.  And  she  felt  she  must  live  now,  to  be 
with  her  children.  Life  was  so  rich  for  her.  Paul  wanted  her,, 
and  so  did  Arthur.  Arthur  never  knew  how  deeply  he  loved 
her.  He  was  a  creature  of  the  moment.  Never  yet  had  he 
been  forced  to  realize  himself.  The  army  had  disciplined  his 
body,  but  not  his  soul.  He  was  in  perfect  health  and  very 
handsome.  His  dark,  vigorous  hair  sat  close  to  his  smallish 
head.  There  was  something  childish  about  his  nose,  some- 
thing almost  girlish  about  his  dark  blue  eyes.  But  he  had  the 
full  red  mouth  of  a  man  under  his  brown  moustache,  and  his 
jaw  was  strong.  It  was  his  father's  mouth;  it  was  the  nose 
and  eyes  of  her  own  mother's  people— good-looking,  weak- 
principled  folk.  Mrs.  Morel  was  anxious  about  him.  Once 
he  had  really  run  the  rig  he  was  safe.  But  how  far  would  he 
go? 

The  army  had  not  really  done  him  any  good.  He  resented 
bitterly  the  authority  of  the  petty  officers.  He  hated  having 
to  obey  as  if  he  were  an  animal.  But  he  had  too  much  sense 
to  kick.  So  he  turned  his  attention  to  getting  the  best  out  of 
it.  He  could  sing,  he  was  a  boon-companion.  Often  he  got 
into  scrapes,  but  they  were  the  manly  scrapes  that  are  easily 
condoned.  So  he  made  a  good  time  out  of  it,  whilst  his  self- 
respect  was  in  suppression.  He  trusted  to  his  good  looks  and 
handsome  figure,  his  refinement,  his  decent  education  to  get 
him  most  of  what  he  wanted,  and  he  was  not  disappointed. 
Yet  he  was  restless.  Something  seemed  to  gnaw  him  inside. 
He  was  never  still,  he  was  never  alone.  With  his  mother  he 
was  rather  humble.  Paul  he  admired  and  loved  and  despised 


2pO  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

slightly.  And  Paul  admired  and  loved  and  despised  him 
slightly. 

Mrs.  Morel  had  had  a  few  pounds  left  to  her  by  her  father, 
and  she  decided  to  buy  her  son  out  of  the  army.  He  was  wild 
with  joy.  Now  he  was  like  a  lad  taking  a  holiday. 

He  had  always  been  fond  of  Beatrice  Wyld,  and  during 
his  furlough  he  picked  up  with  her  again.  She  was  stronger 
and  better  in  health.  The  two  often  went  long  walks  to- 
gether, Arthur  taking  her  arm  in  soldier's  fashion,  rather 
stiffly.  And  she  came  to  play  the  piano  whilst  he  sang.  Then 
Arthur  would  unhook  his  tunic  collar.  He  grew  flushed,  his 
eyes  were  bright,  he  sang  in  a  manly  tenor.  Afterwards  they 
sat  together  on  the  sofa.  He  seemed  to  flaunt  his  body:  she 
was  aware  of  him  so— the  strong  chest,  the  sides,  the  thighs 
in  their  close-fitting  trousers. 

He  liked  to  lapse  into  the  dialect  when  he  talked  to  her. 
She  would  sometimes  smoke  with  him.  Occasionally  she 
would  only  take  a  few  whiffs  of  his  cigarette. 

"Nay,"  he  said  to  her  one  evening,  when  she  reached  for 
his  cigarette.  "Nay,  tha  doesna.  I'll  gi'e  thee  a  smoke  kiss  if 
ter's  a  mind." 

"I  wanted  a  whiff,  no  kiss  at  all,"  she  answered. 

"Well,  an'  tha  s'lt  ha'e  a  whiff,"  he  said,  "along  wi' t'  kiss." 

"I  want  a  draw  at  thy  fag,"  she  cried,  snatching  for  the 
cigarette  between  his  lips. 

He  was  sitting  with  his  shoulder  touching  her.  She  was 
small  and  quick  as  lightning.  He  just  escaped. 

"I'll  gi'e  thee  a  smoke  kiss,"  he  said. 

"Tha'rt  a  nivey  nuisance,  Arty  Morel,"  she  said,  sitting 
back. 

"Ha'e  a  smoke  kiss?" 

The  soldier  leaned  forward  to  her,  smiling.  His  face  was 
fiear  hers. 

"Shonna!"  she  replied,  turning  away  her  head. 

He  took  a  draw  at  his  cigarette,  and  pursed  up  his  mouth, 
and  put  his  lips  close  to  her.  His  dark-brown  cropped  mous- 
tache stood  out  like  a  brush.  She  looked  at  the  puckered 
crimson  lips,  then  suddenly  snatched  the  cigarette  from  his 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  29 1 

fingers  and  darted  away.  He,  leaping  after  her,  seized  the 
comb  from  her  back  hair.  She  turned,  threw  the  cigarette 
at  him.  He  picked  it  up,  put  it  in  his  mouth,  and  sat  down. 

"Nuisance! "  she  cried.  "Give  me  my  comb!" 

She  was  afraid  that  her  hair,  specially  done  for  him,  would 
come  down.  She  stood  with  her  hands  to  her  head.  He  hid 
the  comb  between  his  knees. 

"I've  non  got  it,"  he  said. 

The  cigarette  trembled  between  his  lips  with  laughter  fib 
he  spoke. 

"Liar!"  she  said.  . 

"  'S  true  as  I'm  here!"  he  laughed,  showing  his  hands. 

"You  brazen  imp!"  she  exclaimed,  rushing  and  scuffling 
for  the  comb,  which  he  had  under  his  knees.  As  she  wrestled 
with  him,  pulling  at  his  smooth,  tight-covered  knees,  he 
laughed  till  he  lay  back  on  the  sofa  shaking  with  laughter. 
The  cigarette  fell  from  his  mouth,  almost  singeing  his  throat. 
Under  his  delicate  tan  the  blood  flushed  up,  and  he  laughed 
till  his  blue  eyes  were  blinded,  his  throat  swollen  almost  to 
choking.  Then  he  sat  up.  Beatrice  was  putting  in  her  comb. 

"Tha  tickled  me,  Beat,"  he  said  thickly. 

Like  a  flash  her  small  white  hand  went  out  and  smacked 
his  face.  He  started  up,  glaring  at  her.  They  stared  at  each 
other.  Slowly  the  flush  mounted  her  cheek,  she  dropped  her 
eyes,  then  her  head.  He  sat  down  sulkily.  She  went  into  the 
scullery  to  adjust  her  hair.  In  private  there  she  shed  a  few 
tears,  she  did  not  know  what  for. 

When  she  returned  she  was  pursed  up  close.  But  it  was 
only  a  film  over  her  fire.  He,  with  ruffled  hair,  was  sulking 
upon  the  sofa.  She  sat  down  opposite,  in  the  arm-chair,  and 
neither  spoke.  The  clock  ticked  in  the  silence  like  blo^vs. 

"You  are  a  little  cat,  Beat,"  he  said  at  length,  half  apolo- 
getically. 

"Well,  you  shouldn't  be  brazen,"  she  replied. 

There  was  again  a  long  silence.  He  whistled  to  himself, 
like  a  man  much  agitated  but  defiant.  Suddenly  she  went 
across  to  him  and  kissed  him. 

"Did  it,  pore  fing!"  she  mocked. 


292  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

He  lifted  her  face,  smiling  curiously. 
"Kiss?"  he  invited  her. 
"Daren't  I?"  she  asked. 

"Go  on!"  he  challenged,  his  mouth  lifted  to  her. 

Deliberately,  and  with  a  peculiar  quivering  smile  that 
seemed  to  overspread  her  whole  body,  she  put  her  mouth 
on  his.  Immediately  his  arms  folded  round  her.  As  soon  as 
the  long  kiss  was  finished  she  drew  back  her  head  from  him, 
put  her  delicate  fingers  on  his  neck,  through  the  open  collar. 
Then  she  closed  her  eyes,  giving  herself  up  again  in  a  kiss. 

She  acted  of  her  own  free  will.  What  she  would  do  she 
did,  and  made  nobody  responsible. 

Paul  felt  life  changing  around  him.  The  conditions  of 
youth  were  gone.  Now  it  was  a  home  of  grown-up  people. 
Annie  was  a  married  woman,  Arthur  was  following  his  own 
pleasure  in  a  way  unknown  to  his  folk.  For  so  long  they 
had  all  lived  at  home,  and  gone  out  to  pass  their  time.  But 
now,  for  Annie  and  Arthur,  life  lay  outside  their  mother's 
house.  They  came  home  for  holiday  and  for  rest.  So 
there  was  that  strange,  half-empty  feeling  about  the  house, 
as  if  the  birds  had  flown.  Paul  became  more  and  more 
unsettled.  Annie  and  Arthur  had  gone.  He  was  restless  to 
follow.  Yet  home  was  for  him  beside  his  mother.  And  still 
there  was  something  else,  something  outside,  something  he 
wanted. 

He  grew  more  and  more  restless.  Miriam  did  not  satisfy 
him.  His  old  mad  desire  to  be  with  her  grew  weaker.  Some- 
times he  met  Clara  in  Nottingham,  sometimes  he  went  to 
meetings  with  her,  sometimes  he  saw  her  at  Willey  Farm. 
But  on  these  last  occasions  the  situation  became  strained. 
There  was  a  triangle  of  antagonism  between  Paul  and  Clara 
and  Miriam.  With  Clara  he  took  on  a  smart,  worldly,  mock- 
ing tone  very  antagonistic  to  Miriam.  It  did  not  matter  what 
went  before.  She  might  be  intimate  and  sad  with  him.  Then 
as  soon  as  Clara  appeared,  it  all  vanished,  and  he  played  to 
the  newcomer. 

Miriam  had  one  beautiful  evening  with  him  in  the  hay. 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  293 

He  had  been  on  the  horse-rake,  and,  having  finished,  came  to 
help  her  to  put  the  hay  in  cocks.  Then  he  talked  to  her  of 
his  hopes  and  despairs,  and  his  whole  soul  seemed  to  lie  bare 
before  her.  She  felt  as  if  she  watched  the  very  quivering 
stuff  of  life  in  him.  The  moon  came  out:  they  walked  home 
together:  he  seemed  to  have  come  to  her  because  he  needed 
her  so  badly,  and  she  listened  to  him,  gave  him  all  her  love 
and  her  faith.  It  seemed  to  her  he  brought  her  the  best  of 
himself  to  keep,  and  that  she  would  guard  it  all  her  life.  Nay, 
the  sky  did  not  cherish  the  stars  more  surely  and  eternally 
than  she  would  guard  the  good  in  the  soul  of  Paul  Morel.  She 
went  on  home  alone  feeling  exalted,  glad  in  her  faith. 

And  then,  the  next  day,  Clara  came.  They  were  to  have 
tea  in  the  hayfield.  Miriam  watched  the  evening  drawing 
to  gold  and  shadow.  And  all  the  time  Paul  was  sporting  with 
Clara.  He  made  higher  and  higher  heaps  of  hay  that  they 
were  jumping  over.  Miriam  did  not  care  for  the  game,  and 
stood  aside.  Edgar  and  Geoffrey  and  Maurice  and  Clara  and 
Paul  jumped.  Paul  won,  because  he  was  light.  Clara's  blood 
was  roused.  She  could  run  like  an  Amazon.  Paul  loved  the 
determined  way  she  rushed  at  the  haycock  and  leaped, 
landed  on  the  other  side,  her  breasts  shaken,  her  thick  hair 
coming  undone. 

"You  touched!"  he  cried.  "You  touched!" 

"No!"  she  flashed,  turning  to  Edgar.  "I  didn't  touch,  did 
I?  Wasn't  I  clear?" 

"I  couldn't  say,"  laughed  Edgar. 

None  of  them  could  say. 

"But  you  touched,"  said  Paul.  "You're  beaten." 
"I  did  not  touch!"  she  cried. 
"As  plain  as  anything,"  said  Paul. 
"Box  his  ears  for  me!"  she  cried  to  Edgar. 
"Nay,"  Edgar  laughed.  "I  darn't.  You  must  do  it  yourself." 
"And  nothing  can  alter  the  fact  that  you  touched," 
laughed  Paul. 

She  was  furious  with  him.  Her  little  triumph  before  these 
lads  and  men  was  gone.  She  had  forgotten  herself  in  the 
game.  Now  he  was  to  humble  her. 


294  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"I  think  you  are  despicable!"  she  said. 

And  again  he  laughed,  in  a  way  that  tortured  Miriam. 

"And  I  knew  you  couldn't  jump  that  heap,"  he  teased. 

She  turned  her  back  on  him.  Yet  everybody  could  see  that 
the  only  person  she  listened  to,  or  was  conscious  of,  was  he, 
and  he  of  her.  It  pleased  the  men  to  see  this  battle  between 
them.  But  Miriam  was  tortured. 

Paul  could  choose  the  lesser  in  place  of  the  higher,  she 
saw.  He  could  be  unfaithful  to  himself,  unfaithful  to  the 
real,  deep  Paul  Morel.  There  was  a  danger  of  his  becoming 
frivolous,  of  his  running  after  his  satisfactions  like  any 
Arthur,  or  like  his  father.  It  made  Miriam  bitter  to  think 
that  he  should  throw  away  his  soul  for  this  flippant  traffic 
of  triviality  with  Clara.  She  walked  in  bitterness  and  silence, 
while  the  other  two  rallied  each  other,  and  Paul  sported. 

And  afterwards,  he  would  not  own  it,  but  he  was  rather 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  protested  himself  before  Miriam. 
Then  again  he  rebelled. 

"It's  not  religious  to  be  religious,"  he  said.  "I  reckon  a 
crow  is  religious  when  it  sails  across  the  sky.  But  it  only  does 
it  because  it  feels  itself  carried  to  where  it's  going,  not 
Decause  it  thinks  it  is  being  eternal." 

But  Miriam  knew  that  one  should  be  religious  in  every- 
thing, have  God,  whatever  God  might  be,  present  in  every 
thing. 

"I  don't  believe  God  knows  such  a  lot  about  Himself,"  he 
cried.  "God  doesn't  know  things.  He  is  things.  And  I'm  sure 
He's  not  soulful." 

And  then  it  seemed  to  her  that  Paul  was  arguing  God 
on  to  his  own  side,  because  he  wanted  his  own  way  and  his 
own  pleasure.  There  was  a  long  battle  between  him  and  her. 
He  was  utterly  unfaithful  to  her  even  in  her  own 
presence;  then  he  was  ashamed,  then  repentant;  then  he 
hated  her,  and  went  off  again.  Those  were  the  ever-recurring 
conditions. 

She  fretted  him  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul.  There  she  re- 
mained—sad, pensive,  a  worshipper.  And  he  caused  her  sor- 
row. Half  the  time  ke  grieved  for  her,  half  the  time  he 


DEFEAT  OF  MIRIAM  295 

hated  her.  She  was  his  conscience;  and  he  felt,  somehow,  he 
had  got  a  conscience  that  was  too  much  for  him.  He  could 
not  leave  her,  because  in  one  way  she  did  hold  the  best  of 
him.  He  could  not  stay  with  her  because  she  did  not  take 
the  rest  of  him,  which  was  three-quarters.  So  he  chafed 
himself  into  rawness  over  her. 

When  she  was  twenty-one  jie  wrote  her  a  letter  which 
could  only  have  been  written  to  her. 

"May  I  speak  of  our  old,  worn  love,  this  last  time.  It, 
too,  is  changing,  is  it  not?  Say,  has  not  the  body  of  that  love 
died,  and  left  you  its  invulnerable  soul?  You  see,  I  can  give 
you  a  spirit  love,  I  have  given  it  you  this  long,  long  time;  but 
not  embodied  passion.  See,  you  are  a  nun.  I  have  given  you 
what  I  would  give  a  holy  nun— as  a  mystic  monk  to  a  mystic 
nun.  Surely  you  esteem  it  best.  Yet  you  regret— no,  have  re- 
gretted—the other.  In  all  our  relations  no  body  enters.  I  do 
not  talk  to  you  through  the  senses— rather  through  the  spirit. 
That  is  why  we  cannot  love  in  the  common  sense.  Ours  is 
not  an  everyday  affection.  As  yet  we  are  mortal,  and  to  live 
side  by  side  with  one  another  would  be  dreadful,  for  some- 
how with  you  I  cannot  long  be  trivial,  and,  you  know,  to 
be  always  beyond  this  mortal  state  would  be  to  lose  it.  If 
people  marry,  they  must  live  together  as  affectionate  hu- 
mans, who  may  be  commonplace  with  each  other  without 
feeling  awkward— not  as  two  souls.  So  I  feel  it. 

"Ought  I  to  send  this  letter— I  doubt  it.  But  there— it  is 
best  to  understand.  Au  revoir." 

Miriam  read  this  letter  twice,  after  which  she  sealed  it  up. 
A  year  later  she  broke  the  seal  to  show  her  mother  the 
letter. 

"You  are  a  nun— you  are  a  nun."  The  words  went  into 
her  heart  again  and  again.  Nothing  he  ever  had  said  had  gone 
into  her  so  deeply,  fixedly,  like  a  mortal  wound. 

She  answered  two  days  after  the  party. 

"  'Our  intimacy  would  have  been  all-beautiful  but  for  one 
little  mistake,' "  she  quoted.  "Was  the  mistake  mine?" 


2<)6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Almost  immediately  he  replied  to  her  from  Nottingham, 
sending  her  at  the  same  time  a  little  uOmar  Khayyam." 

"I  am  glad  you  answered;  you  are  so  calm  and  natural  you 
put  me  to  shame.  What  a  ranter  I  am!  We  are  often  out  of 
sympathy.  But  in  fundamentals  we  may  always  be  together, 
[  I  think. 

"I  must  thank  you  for  your  sympathy  with  my  painting 
and  drawing.  Many  a  sketch  is  dedicated  to  you.  I  do  look 
forward  to  your  criticisms,  which,  to  my  shame  and  glory, 
are  always  grand  appreciations.  It  is  a  lovely  joke,  that.  Au 
re  voir." 

This  was  the  end  of  the  first  phase  of  Paul's  love-affair. 
He  was  now  about  twenty-three  years  old,  and,  though  still 
virgin,  the  sex  instinct  that  Miriam  had  over-refined  for  so 
long  now  grew  particularly  strong.  Often,  as  he  talked  to 
Clara  Dawes,  came  that  thickening  and  quickening  of  his 
blood,  that  peculiar  concentration  in  the  breast,  as  if  some- 
thing were  alive  there,  a  new  self  or  a  new  centre  of  con- 
sciousness, warning  him  that  sooner  or  later  he  would  have 
to  ask  one  woman  or  another.  But  he  belonged  to  Miriam. 
Of  that  she  was  so  fixedly  sure  that  he  allowed  her  right. 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

CHAPTER  X 


CLARA 


WHEN  he  was  twenty-three  years  old  Paul  sent  in  * 
landscape  to  the  winter  exhibition  at  Nottingham 
Castle.  Miss  Jordan  had  taken  a  good  deal  of  interest  in 
him,  had  invited  him  to  her  house,  where  he  met  other 
artists.  He  was  beginning  to  grow  ambitious. 

One  morning  the  postman  came  just  as  he  was  washing 
in  the  scullery.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  wild  noise  from  his 
mother.  Rushing  into  the  kitchen,  he  found  her  standing 
on  the  hearthrug  wildly  waving  a  letter  and  crying  "Hur- 
rah!" as  if  she  had  gone  mad.  He  was  shocked  and  frightened, 
"Why,  mother!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  flew  to  him,  flung  her  arms  round  him  for  a  moment, 
then  waved  the  letter,  crying: 

"Hurrah,  my  boy!  I  knew  we  should  do  it!" 

He  was  afraid  of  her— the  small,  severe  woman  with 
greying  hair  suddenly  bursting  out  in  such  frenzy.  The  post- 
man came  running  back,  afraid  something  had  happened. 
They  saw  his  tipped  cap  over  the  short  curtain.  Mrs.  Morel 
rushed  to  the  door. 

"His  picture's  got  first  prize,  Fred,"  she  cried,  "and  is 
sold  for  twenty  guineas." 

"My  word,  that's  something  like!"  said  the  young  post- 
man, whom  they  had  known  all  his  life. 

"And  Major  Moreton  has  bought  it!"  she  cried. 

"It  looks  like  meanin'  something,  that  does,  Mrs.  Morel,'* 
said  the  postman,  his  blue  eyes  bright.  He  was  glad  to  have 
brought  such  a  lucky  letter.  Mrs.  Morel  went  indoors  and 
sat  down,  trembling.  Paul  was  afraid  lest  she  might  have 
misread  the  letter,  and  might  be  disappointed  after 
all.  He  scrutinized  it  once,  twice.  Yes,  he  became  con- 

297 


C98  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

idnced  it  was  true.  Then  he  sat  down,  his  heart  beating 
with  joy. 

"Mother!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Dicjn't  I  say  we  should  do  it!"  she  said,  pretending  she 
was  not  crying. 

He  took  the  kettle  off  the  fire  and  mashed  the  tea. 

"You  didn't  think,  mother—"  he  began  tentatively. 

"No,  my  son— not  so  much— but  I  expected  a  good  deal.* 

"But  not  so  much,"  he  said. 

"No— no— but  I  knew  we  should  do  it." 

And  then  she  recovered  her  composure,  apparently  at 
least.  He  sat  with  his  shirt  turned  back,  showing  his  young 
throat  almost  like  a  girl's,  and  the  towel  in  his  hand,  his 
hair  sticking  up  wet. 

"Twenty  guineas,  mother!  That's  just  what  you  wanted 
to  buy  Arthur  out.  Now  you  needn't  borrow  any.  It'll  just 
do." 

"Indeed,  I  shan't  take  it  all,"  she  said. 
"But  why?" 
"Because  I  shan't."' 

"Well— you  have  twelve  pounds,  I'll  have  nine." 

They  cavilled  about  sharing  the  twenty  guineas.  She 
wanted  to  take  only  the  five  pounds  she  needed.  He  would 
not  hear  of  it.  So  they  got  over  the  stress  of  emotion  by 
quarrelling. 

Morel  came  home  at  night  from  the  pit,  saying: 

"They  tell  me  Paul's  got  first  prize  for  his  picture,  and 
sold  it  to  Lord  Henry  Bentley  for  fifty  pound." 

"Oh,  what  stories  people  do  tell!"  she  cried. 

"Ha!"  he  answered.  "I  said  I  wor  sure  it  wor  a  lie.  But 
they  said  tha'd  told  Fred  Hodgkisson." 

"As  if  I  would  tell  him  such  stuff! " 

"Ha!"  assented  the  miner. 

But  he  was  disappointed  nevertheless. 

"It's  true  he  has  got  the  first  prize,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

The  miner  sat  heavily  in  his  chair. 

"Has  he,  beguy!"  he  exclaimed. 

He  stared  across  the  room  fixedly. 


CLARA  299 

"But  as  for  fifty  pounds— such  nonsense!"  She  was  silent 
awhile.  "Major  Moreton  bought  it  for  twenty  guineas,  that's 
true." 

"Twenty  guineas!  Tha  niver  says!"  exclaimed  Morel. 
"Yes,  and  it  was  worth  it." 

"Ay!"  he  said.  "I  don't  misdoubt  it.  But  twenty  guineas 
for  a  bit  of  a  paintin'  as  he  knocked  off  in  an  hour  or  two!'* 

He  was  silent  with  conceit  of  his  son.  Mrs.  Morel  sniffed, 
as  if  it  were  nothing. 

"And  when  does  he  handle  th'  money?"  asked  the  collier. 

"That  I  couldn't  tell  you.  When  the  picture  is  sent  home, 
I  suppose." 

There  was  silence.  Morel  stared  at  the  sugar-basin  instead 
of  eating  his  dinner.  His  black  arm,  with  the  hand  all  gnarled 
with  work,  lay  on  the  table.  His  wife  pretended  not  to  see 
him  rub  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  nor  the  smear 
in  the  coal-dust  on  his  black  face. 

"Yes,  an'  that  other  lad  'ud  'a  done  as  much  if  they  hadni 
ha'  killed  'im,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  thought  of  William  went  through  Mrs.  Morel  like  a 
cold  blade.  It  left  her  feeling  she  was  tired,  and  wanted  rest. 

Paul  was  invited  to  dinner  at  Mr.  Jordan's.  Afterwards 
he  said: 

"Mother,  I  want  an  evening  suit." 

"Yes,  I  was  afraid  you  would,"  she  said.  She  was  glad. 
There  was  a  moment  or  two  of  silence.  "There's  that  one  ot 
William's,"  she  continued,  "that  I  know  cost  four  pounds 
ten  and  which  he'd  only  worn  three  times." 

"Should  you  like  me  to  wear  it,  mother?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  I  think  it  would  fit  you— at  least  the  coat.  The  trous- 
ers would  want  shortening." 

He  went  upstairs  and  put  on  the  coat  and  vest.  Coming 
down,  he  looked  strange  in  a  flannel  collar  and  a  flannel  shirt- 
front,  with  an  evening  coat  and  vest.  It  was  rather  large. 

"The  tailor  can  make  it  right,"  she  said,  smoothing  her 
hand  over  his  shoulder.  "It's  beautiful  stuff.  I  never  could 
find  in  my  heart  to  let  your  father  wear  the  trousers,  and 
very  glad  I  am  now." 


JOO  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

And  as  she  smoothed  her  hand  over  the  silk  collar  she 
thought  of  her  eldest  son.  But  this  son  was  living  enough 
inside  the  clothes.  She  passed  her  hand  down  his  back  to 
feel  him.  He  was  alive  and  hers.  The  other  was  dead. 

He  went  out  to  dinner  several  times  in  his  evening  suit 
that  had  been  William's.  Each  time  his  mother's  heart  was 
firm  with  pride  and  joy.  He  was  started  now.  The  studs  she 
and  the  children  had  bought  for  William  were  in  his  shirt- 
front;  he  wore  one  of  William's  dress  shirts.  But  he  had  an 
elegant  figure.  His  face  was  rough,  but  warm-looking  and 
rather  pleasing.  He  did  not  look  particularly  a  gentleman, 
but  she  thought  he  looked  quite  a  man. 

He  told  her  everything  that  took  place,  everything  that 
was  said.  It  was  as  if  she  had  been  there.  And  he  was  dying 
to  introduce  her  to  these  new  friends  who  had  dinner  at 
seven-thirty  in  the  evening. 

"Go  along  with  you!"  she  said.  "What  do  they  want  to 
know  me  for?" 

"They  do!"  he  cried  indignantly.  "If  they  want  to  know 
me— and  they  say  they  do— then  they  want  to  know  you, 
because  you  are  quite  as  clever  as  I  am." 

"Go  along  with  you,  child!"  she  laughed. 

But  she  began  to  spare  her  hands.  They,  too,  were  work- 
gnarled  now.  The  skin  was  shiny  with  so  much  hot  water, 
the  knuckles  rather  swollen.  But  she  began  to  be  careful  to 
keep  them  out  of  soda.  She  regretted  what  they  had  been— 
so  small  and  exquisite.  And  when  Annie  insisted  on  her  hav- 
ing more  stylish  blouses  to  suit  her  age,  she  submitted.  She 
even  went  so  far  as  to  allow  a  black  velvet  bow  to  be  placed 
on  her  hair.  Then  she  sniffed  in  her  sarcastic  manner,  and 
Was  sure  she  looked  a  sight.  But  she  looked  a  lady,  Paul  de- 
clared, as  much  as  Mrs.  Major  Moreton,  and  far,  far  nicer. 
The  family  was  coming  on.  Only  Morel  remained  un- 
changed, or  rather,  lapsed  slowly. 

Paul  and  his  mother  now  had  long  discussions  about  life. 
Religion  was  fading  into  the  background.  He  had  shovelled 
away  all  the  beliefs  that  would  hamper  him,  had  cleared  the 
ground,  and  come  more  or  less  to  the  bedrock  of  belief  that 


CLARA  3OI 

one  should  feel  inside  oneself  for  right  and  wrong,  and 
should  have  the  patience  to  gradually  realize  one's  God. 
Now  life  interested  him  more. 

"You  know,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  "I  don't  want  to  be- 
long to  the  well-to-do  middle  class.  I  like  my  common  people 
best.  I  belong  to  the  common  people." 

"But  if  anyone  else  said  so,  my  son,  wouldn't  you  be  in 
a  tear!  You  know  you  consider  yourself  equal  to  any  gen- 
tleman." 

"In  myself,"  he  answered,  "not  in  my  class  or  my  educa- 
tion or  my  manners.  But  in  myself  I  am." 

"Very  well,  then.  Then  why  talk  about  the  commorv 
people?" 

"Because— the  difference  between  people  isn't  in  their 
class,  but  in  themselves.  Only  from  the  middle  classes  one 
gets  ideas,  and  from  the  common  people— life  itself,  warmth. 
You  feel  their  hates  and  loves." 

"It's  all  very  well,  my  boy.  But,  then,  why  don't  you  go 
and  talk  to  your  father's  pals?" 

"But  they're  rather  different." 

"Not  at  all.  They're  the  common  people.  After  all,  whom 
do  you  mix  with  now— among  the  common  people?  Those 
that  exchange  ideas,  like  the  middle  classes.  The  rest  don't 
interest  you." 

"But-there's  the  life  — " 

"I  don't  believe  there's  a  jot  more  life  from  Miriam  than 
you  could  get  from  any  educated  girl— say  Miss  Moreton. 
It  is  you  who  are  snobbish  about  class." 

She  frankly  wanted  him  to  climb  into  the  middle  classes, 
a  thing  not  very  difficult,  she  knew.  And  she  wanted  him  m 
the  end  to  marry  a  lady. 

Now  she  began  to  combat  him  in  his  restless  fretting.  He 
still  kept  up  his  connexion  with  Miriam,  could  neither 
break  free  nor  go  the  whole  length  of  engagement.  And 
this  indecision  seemed  to  bleed  him  of  his  energy.  More- 
over, his  mother  suspected  him  of  an  unrecognized  leaning 
towards  Clara,  and,  since  the  latter  was  a  married  woman,, 
she  wished  he  would  fall  in  love  with  one  of  the  girls  in  a 


302  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

better  station  of  life.  But  he  was  stupid,  and  would  refuse  to 
love  or  even  to  admire  a  girl  much,  just  because  she  was  his 
social  superior. 

"My  boy,"  said  his  mother  to  him,  "all  your  cleverness, 
your  breaking  away  from  old  things,  and  taking  life  in  your 
own  hands,  doesn't  seem  to  bring  you  much  happiness." 

"What  is  happiness!"  he  cried.  "It's  nothing  to  me!  How 
am  I  to  be  happy?" 

The  plump  question  disturbed  her. 

"That's  for  you  to  judge,  my  lad.  But  if  you  could  meet 
some  good  woman  who  would  make  you  happy— and  you 
began  to  think  of  settling  your  life— when  you  have  the 
means— so  that  you  could  work  without  all  this  fretting— it 
would  be  much  better  for  you." 

He  frowned.  His  mother  caught  him  on  the  raw  of  his 
wound  of  Miriam.  He  pushed  the  tumbled  hair  off  his  fore- 
head, his  eyes  full  of  pain  and  fire. 

"You  mean  easy,  mother,"  he  cried.  "That's  a  woman's 
whole  doctrine  for  life— ease  of  soul  and  physical  comfort. 
And  I  do  despise  it." 

"Oh,  do  you!"  replied  his  mother.  "And  do  you  call  yours 
u  divine  discontent?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  care  about  its  divinity.  But  damn  your  hap- 
piness! So  long  as  life's  full,  it  doesn't  matter  whether  it's 
happy  or  not.  I'm  afraid  your  happiness  would  bore  me." 

"You  never  give  it  a  chance,"  she  said.  Then  suddenly 
all  her  passion  of  grief  over  him  broke  out.  "But  it  does 
matter!"  she  cried.  "And  you  ought  to  be  happy,  you  ought 
to  try  to  be  happy,  to  live  to  be  happy.  How  could  I  bear  to 
think  your  life  wouldn't  be  a  happy  one!" 

"Your  own's  been  bad  enough,  mater,  but  it  hasn't  left 
you  so  much  worse  off  than  the  folk  who've  been  happier. 
I  reckon  you've  done  well.  And  I  am  the  same.  Aren't  I 
well  enough  off?" 

"You're  not,  my  son.  Battle— battle— and  suffer.  It's  about 
all  you  do,  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

"But  why  not,  my  dear?  I  tell  you  it's  the  best  " 

"It  isn't.  And  one  ought  to  be  happy,  one  ought." 


CLARA  303 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Morel  was  trembling  violently.  Strug- 
gles of  this  kind  often  took  place  between  her  and  her  son. 
when  she  seemed  to  fight  for  his  very  life  against  his  own 
will  to  die.  He  took  her  in  his  arms.  She  was  ill  and  pitiful. 

"Never  mind,  Little,"  he  murmured.  "So  long  as  you 
don't  feel  life's  paltry  and  a  miserable  business,  the  rest 
doesn't  matter,  happiness  or  unhappiness." 

She  pressed  him  to  her. 

"But  I  want  you  to  be  happy,"  she  said  pathetically. 

"Eh,  my  dear— say  rather  you  want  me  to  live." 

Mrs.  Morel  felt  as  if  her  heart  would  break  for  him.  At 
this  rate  she  knew  he  would  not  live.  He  had  that  poignant 
carelessness  about  himself,  his  own  suffering,  his  own  life, 
which  is  a  form  of  slow  suicide.  It  almost  broke  her  heart, 
with  all  the  passion  of  her  strong  nature  she  hated  Miriam 
for  having  in  this  subtle  way  undermined  his  joy.  It  did  nor 
matter  to  her  that  Miriam  could  not  help  it.  Miriam  did  it, 
and  she  hated  her. 

She  wished  so  much  he  would  fall  in  love  with  a  girl  equal 
to  be  his  mate— educated  and  strong.  But  he  would  not 
look  at  anybody  above  him  in  station.  He  seemed  to  like 
Mrs.  Dawes.  At  any  rate  that  feeling  was  wholesome.  His 
mother  prayed  and  prayed  for  him,  that  he  might  not  be 
wasted.  That  was  all  her  prayer— not  for  his  soul  or  his 
righteousness,  but  that  he  might  not  be  wasted.  And  while 
he  slept,  for  hours  and  hours  she  thought  and  prayed  for 
him. 

He  drifted  away  from  Miriam  imperceptibly,  without 
knowing  he  was  going.  Arthur  only  left  the  army  to  be 
married.  The  baby  was  born  six  months  after  his  wedding. 
Mrs.  Morel  got  him  a  job  under  the  firm  again,  at  twenty- 
one  shillings  a  week.  She  furnished  for  him,  with  the  help 
of  Beatrice's  mother,  a  little  cottage  of  two  rooms.  He  was 
caught  now.  It  did  not  matter  how  he  kicked  and  struggled, 
he  was  fast.  For  a  time  he  chafed,  was  irritable  with  his 
young  wife,  who  loved  him;  he  went  almost  distracted  when 
the  baby,  which  was  delicate,  cried  or  gave  trouble.  He 
grumbled  for  hours  to  his  mother.  She  only  said,  "Well, 


304  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

my  lad,  you  did  it  yourself,  now  you  must  make  the  best  of 
it."  And  then  the  grit  came  out  in  him.  He  buckled  to  work, 
undertook  his  responsibilities,  acknowledged  that  he  be- 
longed to  his  wife  and  child,  and  did  make  a  good  best  of  it. 
He  had  never  been  very  closely  inbound  into  the  family. 
Now  he  was  gone  altogether. 

The  months  went  slowly  along.  Paul  had  more  or  less 
got  into  connexion  with  the  Socialist,  Suffragette,  Unitarian 
people  in  Nottingham,  owing  to  his  acquaintance  with  Clara. 
One  day  a  friend  of  his  and  of  Clara's,  in  Bestwood,  asked 
him  to  take  a  message  to  Mrs.  Dawes.  He  went  in  the  eve- 
ning across  Sneinton  Market  to  Bluebell  Hill.  He  found  the 
house  in  a  mean  little  street  paved  with  granite  cobbles  and 
having  causeways  of  dark  blue,  grooved  bricks.  The  front- 
door went  up  a  step  from  off  this  rough  pavement,  where 
the  feet  of  the  passers-by  rasped  and  clattered.  The  brown 
paint  on  the  door  was  so  old  that  the  naked  wood  showed 
between  the  rents.  He  stood  on  the  street  below  and 
knocked.  There  came  a  heavy  footstep;  a  large,  stout  woman 
of  about  sixty  towered  above  him.  He  looked  up  at  her  from 
the  pavement.  She  had  a  rather  severe  face. 

She  admitted  him  into  the  parlour,  which  opened  on  to 
the  street.  It  was  a  small,  stuffy,  defunct  room,  of  mahogany, 
and  deathly  enlargements  of  photographs  of  departed  people 
done  in  carbon.  Mrs.  Radford  left  him.  She  was  stately, 
almost  martial.  In  a  moment  Clara  appeared.  She  flushed 
deeply,  and  he  was  covered  with  confusion.  It  seemed  as 
if  she  did  not  like  being  discovered  in  her  home  circum- 
stances. 

"I  thought  it  couldn't  be  your  voice,"  she  said. 

But  she  might  as  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  for  a  lamb. 
She  invited  him  out  of  the  mausoleum  of  a  parlour  into  the 
kitchen. 

That  was  a  little,  darkish  room  too,  but  it  was  smothered 
In  white  lace.  The  mother  had  seated  herself  again  by  the 
cupboard,  and  was  drawing  thread  from  a  vast  web  of  lace. 
A  clump  of  fluff  and  ravelled  cotton  was  at  her  right  hand, 
a  heap  of  three-quarter-inch  lace  lay  on  her  left,  whilst  in 


CLARA  305 

front  of  her  was  the  mountain  of  the  lace  web,  piling  the 
hearthrug.  Threads  of  curly  cotton,  pulled  out  from  be- 
tween the  lengths  of  lace,  strewed  over  the  fender  and  the 
fireplace.  Paul  dared  not  go  forward,  for  fear  of  treading 
on  piles  of  white  stuff.  . 

On  the  table  was  a  jenny  for  carding  the  lace.  There  were  I 
a  pack  of  brown  cardboard  squares,  a  pack  of  cards  of  lace, 
a  little  box  of  pins,  and  on  the  sofa  lay  a  heap  of  drawn  lace, 

The  room  was  all  lace,  and  it  was  so  dark  and  warm  that 
the  white,  snowy  stuff  seemed  the  more  distinct. 

"If  you're  coming  in  you  won't  have  to  mind  the  work," 
said  Mrs.  Radford.  "I  know  we're  about  blocked  up.  Buf 
sit  you  down." 

Clara,  much  embarrassed,  gave  him  a  chair  against  the 
wall  opposite  the  white  heaps.  Then  she  herself  took  het 
place  on  the  sofa,  shamedly. 

"Will  you  drink  a  bottle  of  stout?"  Mrs.  Radford  asked 
"Clara,  get  him  a  bottle  of  stout." 

He  protested,  but  Mrs.  Radford  insisted. 

"You  look  as  if  you  could  do  with  it,"  she  said.  "Haven't 
you  never  any  more  colour  than  that?" 

"It's  only  a  thick  skin  I've  got  that  doesn't  show  the  blood 
through,"  he  answered. 

Clara,  ashamed  and  chagrined,  brought  him  a  bottle  of 
stout  and  a  glass.  He  poured  out  some  of  the  black  stuff. 

"Well,"  he  said,  lifting  the  glass,  "here's  health!" 

"And  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Radford. 

He  took  a  drink  of  stout. 

"And  light  yourself  a  cigarette,  so  long  as  you  don't  set 
the  house  on  fire,"  said  Mrs.  Radford. 
"Thank  you,"  he  replied. 

"Nay,  you  needn't  thank  me,"  she  answered.  "I  s'll  bt 
glad  to  smell  a  bit  of  smoke  in  th'  'ouse  again.  A  house  o' 
women  is  as  dead  as  a  house  wi'  no  fire,  to  my  thinkin'.  I'm 
not  a  spider  as  likes  a  corner  to  myself.  I  like  a  man  about, 
if  he's  only  something  to  snap  at." 

Clara  began  to  work.  Her  jenny  spun  with  a  subdued 
buzz;  the  white  lace  hopped  from  between  her  fingers  on 


306  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

to  the  card.  It  was  filled;  she  snipped  off  the  length,  and 
pinned  the  end  down  to  the  banded  place.  Then  she  put  a 
new  card  in  her  jenny.  Paul  watched  her.  She  sat  square  and 
magnificent.  Her  throat  and  arms  were  bare.  The  blood  still 
mantled  below  her  ears;  she  bent  her  head  in  shame  of  her 
humility,  Her  face  was  set  on  her  work.  Her  arms  were 
creamy  and  full  of  life  beside  the  white  lace;  her  large, 
well-kept  hands  worked  with  a  balanced  movement,  as  if 
nothing  would  hurry  them.  He,  not  knowing,  watched  her 
all  the  time.  He  saw  the  arch  of  her  neck  from  the  shoulder, 
as  she  bent  her  head;  he  saw  the  coil  of  dun  hair;  he  watched 
her  moving,  gleaming  arms. 

"I've  heard  a  bit  about  you  from  Clara,"  continued  the 
mother.  "You're  in  Jordan's,  aren't  you?"  She  drew  her  lace 
unceasing. 

"Yes." 

"Ay,  well,  and  I  can  remember  when  Thomas  Jordan 
used  to  ask  me  for  one  of  my  toffies." 

"Did  he?"  laughed  Paul.  "And  did  he  get  it?" 

"Sometimes  he  did,  sometimes  he  didn't— which  was  lat- 
terly. For  he's  the  sort  that  takes  all  and  gives  naught,  he  is— 
or  used  to  be." 

"I  think  he's  very  decent,"  said  Paul. 

"Yes;  well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

Mrs.  Radford  looked  across  at  him  steadily.  There  was 
something  determined  about  her  that  he  liked.  Her  face  was 
falling  loose,  but  her  eyes  were  calm,  and  there  was  some- 
thing strong  in  her  that  made  it  seem  she  was  not  old;  merely 
her  wrinkles  and  loose  cheeks  were  an  anachronism.  She 
had  the  strength  and  sang-froid  of  a  woman  in  the  prime  of 
life.  She  continued  drawing  the  lace  with  slow,  dignified 
movements.  The  big  web  came  up  inevitably  over  her  apron; 
the  length  of  lace  fell  away  at  her  side.  Her  arms  were  finely 
shapen,  but  glossy  and  yellow  as  old  ivory.  They  had  not 
the  peculiar  dull  gleam  that  made  Clara's  so  fascinating  to 
him. 

"And  you've  been  going  with  Miriam  Leivers?"  the 
mother  asked  him. 


CLARA  307 

"Well-"  he  answered. 

"Yes,  she's  a  nice  girl,"  she  continued.  "She's  very  nice, 
but  she's  a  bit  too  much  above  this  world  to  suit  my  fancy.'* 
"She  is  a  bit  like  that,"  he  agreed. 

"She'll  never  be  satisfied  till  she's  got  wings  and  can  fl) 
over  everybody's  head,  she  won't,"  she  said. 

Clara  broke  in,  and  he  told  her  his  message.  She  spoke 
humbly  to  him.  He  had  surprised  her  in  her  drudgery.  To 
have  her  humble  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  lifting  his  head 
in  expectation. 

"Do  you  like  jennying?"  he  asked. 

"What  can  a  woman  do!"  she  replied  bitterly. 

"Is  it  sweated?" 

"More  or  less.  Isn't  all  woman's  work?  That's  another  trick 
the  men  have  played,  since  we  force  ourselves  into  the 
labour  market." 

"Now  then,  you  shut  up  about  the  men,"  said  her  mother. 
"If  the  women  wasn't  fools,  the  men  wouldn't  be  bad  uns, 
that's  what  I  say.  No  man  was  ever  that  bad  wi'  me  but  what 
he  got  it  back  again.  Not  but  what  they're  a  lousy  lot,  there's 
no  denying  it." 

"But  they're  all  right  really,  aren't  they?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  they're  a  bit  different  from  women,"  she  answered. 

"Would  you  care  to  be  back  at  Jordan's?"  he  asked  Clara. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  replied. 

"Yes,  she  would!"  cried  her  mother;  "thank  her  stars  if 
she  could  get  back.  Don't  you  listen  to  her.  She's  for  ever  on 
that  'igh  horse  of  hers,  an'  its  back's  that  thin  an'  starved  it'll 
cut  her  i'  two  one  of  these  days." 

Clara  suffered  badly  from  her  mother.  Paul  felt  as  if  his 
eyes  were  coming  very  wide  open.  Wasn't  he  to  take  Clara's 
fulminations  so  seriously,  after  all?  She  spun  steadily  at  hex 
work.  He  experienced  a  thrill  of  joy,  thinking  she  might 
need  his  help.  She  seemed  denied  and  deprived  of  so  much. 
And  her  arm  moved  mechanically,  that  should  never  have 
been  subdued  to  a  mechanism,  and  her  head  was  bowed  to 
the  lace,  that  never  should  have  been  bowed.  She  seemed  to 
be  stranded  there  among  the  refuse  that  life  has  thrown 


jo8  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

away,  doing  her  jennying.  It  was  a  bitter  thing  to  her  to  be 
put  aside  by  life,  as  if  it  had  no  use  for  her.  No  wonder  she 
protested. 

She  came  with  him  to  the  door.  He  stood  below  in  the 
mean  street,  looking  up  at  her.  So  fine  she  was  in  her  stature 
and  her  bearing,  she  reminded  him  of  Juno  dethroned.  As 
she  stood  in  the  doorway,  she  winced  from  the  street,  from 
her  surroundings. 

"And  you  will  go  with  Mrs.  Hodgkinson  to  Hucknall?" 

He  was  talking  quite  meaninglessly,  only  watching  her. 
Her  grey  eyes  at  last  met  his.  They  looked  dumb  with 
humiliation,  pleading  with  a  kind  of  captive  misery.  He 
was  shaken  and  at  a  loss.  He  had  thought  her  high  and 
mighty. 

When  he  left  her,  he  wanted  to  run.  He  went  to  the 
station  in  a  sort  of  dream,  and  was  at  home  without  realizing 
he  had  moved  out  of  her  street. 

He  had  an  idea  that  Susan,  the  overseer  of  the  spiral  girls, 
was  about  to  be  married.  He  asked  her  the  next  day. 

"I  say,  Susan,  I  heard  a  whisper  of  your  getting  married. 
What  about  it?" 

Susan  flushed  red. 

''Who's  been  talking  to  you?"  she  replied. 
"Nobody.  I  merely  heard  a  whisper  that  you  were  think- 
mg  — 

"Well,  I  am,  though  you  needn't  tell  anybody.  What's 
more,  I  wish  I  wasn't!" 

"Nay,  Susan,  you  won't  make  me  believe  that." 

"Shan't  I?  You  can  believe  it,  though.  I'd  rather  stop  here 
n  thousand  times." 

Paul  was  perturbed. 

"Why,  Susan?" 

The  girl's  colour  was  high,  and  her  eyes  flashed. 
"That's  why!" 
"And  must  you?" 

For  answer,  she  looked  at  him.  There  was  about  him  a 
candour  and  gentleness  which  made  the  women  trust  him. 
He  understood. 


CLARA  309 

"Ah,  I'm  sorry,"  he  said. 
Tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"But  you'll  see  it'll  turn  out  all  right.  You'll  make  the  best 
of  it,"  he  continued  rather  wistfully. 
"There's  nothing  else  for  it." 

"Yea,  there's  making  the  worst  of  it.  Try  and  make  it 
all  right." 

He  soon  made  occasion  to  call  again  on  Clara. 

"Would  you,"  he  said,  "care  to  come  back  to  Jordan's?" 

She  put  down  her  work,  laid  her  beautiful  arms  on  the 
table,  and  looked  at  him  for  some  moments  without  answer- 
ing. Gradually  the  flush  mounted  her  cheek. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

Paul  felt  rather  awkward. 

"Well,  because  Susan  is  thinking  of  leaving,"  he  said. 

Clara  went  on  with  her  jennying.  The  white  lace  leaped 
in  little  jumps  and  bounds  on  to  the  card.  He  waited  for 
her.  Without  raising  her  head,  she  said  at  last,  in  a  peculiar 
low  voice: 

"Have  you  said  anything  about  it?" 

"Except  to  you,  not  a  word." 

There  was  again  a  long  silence. 

"I  will  apply  when  the  advertisement  is  out,"  she  said. 
"You  will  apply  before  that.  I  will  let  you  know  exactly 
when." 

She  went  on  spinning  her  little  machine,  and  did  not  con- 
tradict him. 

Clara  came  to  Jordan's.  Some  of  the  older  hands,  Fanny 
among  them,  remembered  her  earlier  rule,  and  cordially  dis- 
liked the  memory.  Clara  had  always  been  "ikey,"  reserved, 
and  superior.  She  had  never  mixed  with  the  girls  as  one  of 
themselves.  If  she  had  occasion  to  find  fault,  she  did  it  coolly 
and  with  perfect  politeness,  which  the  defaulter  felt  to  be  a 
bigger  insult  than  crossness.  Towards  Fanny,  the  poor,  over- 
strung hunchback,  Clara  was  unfailingly  compassionate  and 
gentle,  as  a  result  of  which  Fanny  shed  more  bitter  tears 
than  ever  the  rough  tongues  of  the  other  overseers  had 
caused  her. 


3IO  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

There  was' something  in  Clara  that  Paul  disliked,  and  much 
that  piqued  him.  If  she  were  about,  he  always  watched  her 
strong  throat  or  her  neck,  upon  which  the  blonde  hair  grew 
low  and  fluffy.  There  was  a  fine  down,  almost  invisible,  upon 
the  skin  of  her  face  and  arms,  and  when  once  he  had  per- 
ceived it,  he  saw  it  always. 

When  he  was  at  his  work,  painting  in  the  afternoon,  she 
would  come  and  stand  near  to  him,  perfectly  motionless. 
Then  he  felt  her,  though  she  neither  spoke  nor  touched  him. 
Although  she  stood  a  yard  away  he  felt  as  if  he  were  in 
contact  with  her.  Then  he  could  paint  no  more.  He  flung 
down  the  brushes,  and  turned  to  talk  to  her. 

Sometimes  she  praised  his  work;  sometimes  she  was  critical 
and  cold. 

"You  are  affected  in  that  piece,"  she  would  say;  and,  as 
there  was  an  element  of  truth  in  her  condemnation,  his  blood 
boiled  with  anger. 

Again:  "What  of  this?"  he  would  ask  enthusiastically. 

"H'm!"  She  made  a  small  doubtful  sound.  "It  doesn't  in- 
terest me  much." 

"Because  you  don't  understand  it,"  he  retorted. 

"Then  why  ask  me  about  it?" 

"Because  I  thought  you  would  understand." 

She  would  shrug  her  shoulders  in  scorn  of  his  work.  She 
maddened  him.  He  was  furious.  Then  he  abused  her,  and 
went  into  passionate  exposition  of  his  stuff.  This  amused  and 
stimulated  her.  But  she  never  owned  that  she  had  been 
wrong. 

During  the  ten  years  that  she  had  belonged  to  the  wom- 
en's movement  she  had  acquired  a  fair  amount  of  education, 
and,  having  had  some  of  Miriam's  passion  to  be  instructed, 
had  taught  herself  French,  and  could  read  in  that  language 
tvith  a  struggle.  She  considered  herself  as  a  woman  apart, 
and  particularly  apart,  from  her  class.  The  girls  in  the  spiral 
department  were  all  of  good  homes.  It  was  a  small,  special 
industry,  and  had  a  certain  distinction.  There  was  an  air  of 
refinement  in  both  rooms.  But  Clara  was  aloof  also  from 
her  fellow-workers. 


CLARA  3 1  5 

None  of  these  things,  however,  did  she  reveal  to  Paul.  She 
was  not  the  one  to  give  herself  away.  There  was  a  sense  of 
mystery  about  her.  She  was  so  reserved,  he  felt  she  had  much 
to  reserve.  Her  history  was  open  on  the  surface,  but  its  inner 
meaning  was  hidden  from  everybody.  It  was  exciting.  And 
then  sometimes  he  caught  her  looking  at  him  from  under  her 
brows  with  an  almost  furtive,  sullen  scrutiny,  which  made 
him  move  quickly.  Often  she  met  his  eyes.  But  then  her 
own  were,  as  it  were,  covered  over,  revealing  nothing.  She 
gave  him  a  little,  lenient  smile.  She  was  to  him  extraor- 
dinarily provocative,  because  of  the  knowledge  she  seemed 
to  possess,  and  gathered  fruit  of  experience  he  could  not 
attain. 

One  day  he  picked  up  a  copy  of  Lettres  de  mon  Moulin 
from  her  work-bench, 
i  "You  read  French,  do  you?"  he  cried. 

Clara  glanced  round  negligently.  She  was  making  an  elas- 
tic stocking  of  heliotrope  silk,  turning  the  spiral  machine 
with  slow,  balanced  regularity,  occasionally  bending  down 
to  see  her  work  or  to  adjust  the  needles;  then  her  magnificent 
neck,  with  its  down  and  fine  pencils  of  hair,  shone  white 
against  the  lavender,  lustrous  silk.  She  turned  a  few  more 
rounds,  and  stoppecj. 

"What  did  you  say?"  she  asked,  smiling  sweetly. 

Paul's  eyes  glittered  at  her  insolent  indifference  to  him. 

"I  did  not  know  you  read  French,"  he  said,  very  polite. 
*  "Did  you  not?"  she  replied,  with  a  faint,  sarcastic  smile. 

"Rotten  swank!"  he  said,  but  scarcely  loud  enough  to  b<j 
heard. 

He  shut  his  mouth  angrily  as  he  watched  her.  She  seemed 
to  scorn  the  work  she  mechanically  produced;  yet  the  hose 
she  made  were  as  nearly  perfect  as  possible. 

"You  don't  like  spiral  work,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  well,  all  work  is  work,"  she  answered,  as  if  she  knew 
all  about  it. 

He  marvelled  at  her  coldness.  He  had  to  do  everything 
hotly.  She  must  be  something  special. 

"What  would  you  prefer  to  do?"  he  asked. 


312  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

She  laughed  at  him  indulgently,  as  she  said: 

"There  is  so  little  likelihood  of  my  ever  being  given  a 
choice,  that  I  haven't  wasted  time  considering." 

uPah!"  he  said,  contemptuous  on  his  side  now.  "You  only 
say  that  because  you're  too  proud  to  own  up  what  you  want 
and  can't  get." 

"You  know  me  very  well,"  she  replied  coldly. 

"I  know  you  think  you're  terrific  great  shakes,  and  that 
you  live  under  the  eternal  insult  of  working  in  a  factory." 

He  was  very  angry  and  very  rude.  She  merely  turned  away 
from  him  in  disdain.  He  walked  whistling  down  the  room, 
flirted  and  laughed  with  Hilda. 

Later  on  he  said  to  himself: 

"What  was  I  so  impudent  to  Clara  for?"  He  was  rather 
annoyed  with  himself,  at  the  same  time  glad.  "Serve 
her  right;  she  stinks  with  silent  pride,"  he  said  to  himself 
angrily. 

In  the  afternoon  he  came  down.  There  was  a  certain 
weight  on  his  heart  which  he  wanted  to  remove.  He  thought 
to  do  it  by  offering  her  chocolates. 

"Have  one?"  he  said.  "I  bought  a  handful  to  sweeten 
me  up." 

To  his  great  relief,  she  accepted.  Het  sat  on  the  work- 
bench beside  her  machine,  twisting  a  piece  of  silk  round  his 
finger.  She  loved  him  for  his  quick,  unexpected  movements, 
like  a  young  animal.  His  feet  swung  as  he  pondered.  The 
sweets  lay  strewn  on  the  bench.  She  bent  over  her  machine, 
grinding  rhythmically,  then  stooping  to  see  the  stocking  that 
hung  beneath,  pulled  down  by  the  weight.  He  watched  the 
handsome  crouching  of  her  back,  and  the  apron-strings  curl- 
ing on  the  floor. 

"There  is  always  about  you,"  he  said,  "a  sort  of  waiting. 
Whatever  I  see  you  doing,  you're  not  really  there:  you  are 
tvaiting— like  Penelope  when  she  did  her  weaving."  He  could 
tot  help  a  spurt  of  wickedness.  "I'll  call  you  Penelope,"  he 
Mid. 

"Would  it  make  any  difference?"  she  said,  carefully  re- 
moving one  of  her  needles. 


CLARA  3  I } 

"That  doesn't  matter,  so  long  as  it  pleases  me.  Here, 
I  say,  you  seem  to  forget  I'm  your  boss.  It  just  occurs  to 
me. 

"And  what  does  that  mean?"  she  asked  coolly. 
"It  means  I've  got  a  right  to  boss  you." 
"Is  there  anything  you  want  to  complain  about?" 
"Oh,  I  say,  you  needn't  be  nasty,"  he  said  angrily. 
"I  don't  know  what  you  want,"  she  said,  continuing  he* 
task. 

"I  want  you  to  treat  me  nicely  and  respectfully." 

"Call  you 'sir,'  perhaps?"  she  asked  quietly. 

"Yes,  call  me  'sir.'  I  should  love  it." 

"Then  I  wish  you  would  go  upstairs,  sir." 

His  mouth  closed,  and  a  frown  came  on  his  face.  Hi 
jumped  suddenly  down. 

"You're  too  blessed  superior  for  anything,"  he  said. 

And  he  went  away  to  the  other  girls.  He  felt  he  was  being 
angrier  than  he  had  any  need  to  be.  In  fact,  he  doubted 
slightly  that  he  was  showing  off.  But  if  he  were,  then  he 
would.  Clara  heard  him  laughing,  in  a  way  she  hated,  with 
the  girls  down  the  next  room. 

When  at  evening  he  went  through  the  department  after 
the  girls  had  gone,  he  saw  his  chocolates  lying  untouched  in 
front  of  Clara's  machine.  He  left  them.  In  the  morning  they 
were  still  there,  and  Clara  was  at  work.  Later  on  Minnie, 
a  little  brunette  they  called  Pussy,  called  to  him: 

"Hey,  haven't  you  got  a  chocolate  for  anybody?" 

"Sorry,  Pussy,"  he  replied.  "I  meant  to  have  offered  them; 
then  I  went  and  forgot  'em." 

"I  think  you  did,"  she  answered. 

"I'll  bring  you  some  this  afternoon.  You  don't  want  them 
after  they've  been  lying  about,  do  you?" 
"Oh,  I'm  not  particular,"  smiled  Pussy. 
"Oh  no,"  he  said.  "They'll  be  dusty." 
He  went  up  to  Clara's  bench. 
"Sorry  I  left  these  things  littering  about,"  he  said. 
She  flushed  scarlet.  He  gathered  them  together  in  his  fist. 
"They'll  be  dirty  now,"  he  said.  "You  should  have  taken 


314  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

them.  I  wonder  why  you  didn't.  I  meant  to  have  told  ycu 
I  wanted  you  to." 

He  flung  them  out  of  the  window  into  the  yard  below. 
He  just  glanced  at  her.  She  winced  from  his  eyes. 

In  the  afternoon  he  brought  another  packet. 

"Will  you  take  some?"  he  said,  offering  them  first  to 
Clara.  "These  are  fresh." 

She  accepted  one,  and  put  it  onto  the  bench. 

"Oh,  take  several— for  luck,"  he  said. 

She  took  a  couple  more,  and  put  them  on  the  bench  also. 
Then  she  turned  in  confusion  to  her  work.  He  went  on  up 
the  room. 

"Here  you  are,  Pussy,"  he  said.  "Don't  be  greedy!" 
"Are  they  all  for  her?"  cried  the  others,  rushing  up. 
"Of  course  they're  not,"  he  said. 

The  girls  clamoured  around.  Pussy  drew  back  from  her 
mates. 

"Come  out!"  she  cried.  "I  can  have  first  pick,  can't  I, 
Paul?" 

"Be  nice  with  'em,"  he  said,  and  went  away. 
"You  are  a  dear,"  the  girls  cried. 
"Tenpence,"  he  answered. 

He  went  past  Clara  without  speaking.  She  felt  the  three 
chocolate  creams  would  burn  her  if  she  touched  them.  It 
needed  all  her  courage  to  slip  them  into  the  pocket  of  her 
°,pron. 

The  girls  loved  him  and  were  afraid  of  him.  He  was  so 
nice  while  he  was  nice,  but  if  he  were  offended,  so  distant, 
treating  them  as  if  they  scarcely  existed,  or  not  more  than 
the  bobbins  of  thread.  And  then,  if  they  were  impudent,  he 
said  quietly:  "Do  you  mind  going  on  with  your  work,"  and 
stood  and  watched. 

When  he  celebrated  his  twenty-third  birthday,  the  house 
was  in  trouble.  Arthur  was  just  going  to  be  married.  His 
mother  was  not  well.  His  father,  getting  an  old  man,  and 
lame  from  his  accidents,  was  given  a  paltry,  poor  job.  Miriam 
was  an  eternal  reproach.  He  felt  he  owed  himself  to  her,  yet 
could  not  give  himself.  The  house,  moreover,  needed  his 


CLARA  3  1 5 

support.  He  was  pulled  in  all  directions.  He  was  not  glad  it 
was  his  birthday.  It  made  him  bitter. 

He  got  to  work  at  eight  o'clock.  Most  of  the  clerks  had 
not  turned  up.  The  girls  were  not  due  until  8.30.  As  he  was 
changing  his  coat,  he  heard  a  voice  behind  him  say: 

"Paul,  Paul,  I  want  you,"  she  said. 

It  was  Fanny,  the  hunchback,  standing  at  the  top  of  her 
stairs,  her  face  radiant  with  a  secret.  Paul  looked  at  her  in 
astonishment. 

"I  want  you,"  she  said. 

He  stood,  at  a  loss. 

"Come  on,"  she  coaxed.  "Come  before  you  begin  of  the 
letters." 

He  went  down  the  half-dozen  steps  into  her  dry,  narrow, 
"finishing-off"  room.  Fanny  walked  before  him:  her  black 
bodice  was  short— the  waist  was  under  her  armpits— and  her 
green-black  cashmere  skirt  seemed  very  long,  as  she  strode 
with  big  strides  before  the  young  man,  himself  so  graceful. 
She  went  to  her  seat  at  the  narrow  end  of  the  room,  where 
the  window  opened  on  to  chimney-pots.  Paul  watched  her 
thin  hands  and  her  flat  red  wrists  as  she  excitedly  twitched 
her  white  apron,  which  was  spread  on  the  bench  in  front  of 
her.  She  hesitated. 

"You  didn't  think  we'd  forgot  you?"  she  asked,  re- 
proachful. 

"Why?"  he  asked.  He  had  forgotten  his  birthday  himself. 

"  Why,'  he  says!  Why!'  Why,  look  here!"  She  pointed 
to  the  calendar,  and  he  saw,  surrounding  the  big  black  num- 
ber "21,"  hundreds  of  little  crosses  in  blacklead. 

"Oh,  kisses  for  my  birthday,"  he  laughed.  "How  did  you 
know?" 

"Yes,  you  want  to  know,  don't  you?"  Fanny  mocked, 
hugely  delighted.  "There's  one  from  everybody— except 
Lady  Clara— and  two  from  some.  But  I  shan't  tell  you  how 
many  /  put." 

"Oh,  I  know,  you're  spooney,"  he  said. 

"There  you  are  mistaken!"  she  cried  indignant.  "I  could 
never  be  so  soft."  Her  voice  was  strong  and  contralto. 


3  l6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"You  always  pretend  to  be  such  a  hard-hearted  hussy,"  he 
laughed.  "And  you  know  you're  as  sentimental  * 

"I'd  rather  be  called  sentimental  than  frozen  meat,"  Fanny 
blurted.  Paul  knew  she  referred  to  Clara,  and  he  smiled. 

"Do  you  say  such  nasty  things  about  me?"  he  laughed. 

"No,  my  duck,"  the  hunchback  woman  answered,  lavishly 
tender.  She  was  thirty-nine.  "No,  my  duck,  because  you 
don't  think  yourself  a  fine  figure  in  marble  and  us  nothing 
but  dirt.  I'm  as  good  as  you,  aren't  I,  Paul?"  and  the  question 
delighted  her. 

"Why,  we're  not  better  than  one  another,  are  we?"  he 
replied. 

"But  I'm  as  good  as  you  aren't  I,  Paul?"  she  persisted 
daringly. 

"Of  course  you  are.  If  it  comes  to  goodness,  you're 
better." 

She  was  rather  afraid  of  the  situation.  She  might  get 
hysterical. 

"I  thought  I'd  get  here  before  the  others— won't  they  say 
I'm  deep!  Now  shut  your  eyes—"  she  said. 

"And  open  your  mouth,  and  see  what  God  sends  you,"  he 
continued,  suiting  action  to  words,  and  expecting  a  piece  of 
chocolate.  He  heard  the  rustle  of  the  apron,  and  a  faint  clink 
of  metal.  "I'm  going  to  look,"  he  said. 

He  opened  his  eyes.  Fanny,  her  long  cheeks  flushed,  her 
blue  eyes  shining,  was  gazing  at  him.  There  wras  a  little 
bundle  of  paint-tubes  on  the  bench  before  him.  He  turned 
pale. 

"No,  Fanny,"  he  said  quickly. 
"From  us  all,"  she  answered  hastily. 
"No,  but  " 

"Are  they  the  right  sort?"  she  asked,  rocking  herself 
with  delight. 

"Jove!  they're  the  best  in  the  catalogue." 

"But  they're  the  right  sorts?"  she  cried. 

"They're  off  the  little  list  I'd  made  to  get  when  my  ship 
came  in."  He  bit  his  lip. 


CLARA  317 

Fanny  was  overcome  with  emotion.  She  must  turn  the 
conversation. 

"They  was  all  on  thorns  to  do  it;  they  all  paid  their  shares, 
all  except  the  Queen  of  Sheba." 

The  Queen  of  Sheba  was  Clara. 

"And  wouldn't  she  join?"  Paul  asked. 

"She  didn't  get  the  chance;  we  never  told  her;  we  wasn't 
going  to  have  her  bossing  this  show.  We  didn't  'want  her  to 
join." 

Paul  laughed  at  the  woman.  He  was  much  moved.  At  last 
he  must  go.  She  was  very  close  to  him.  Suddenly  she  flung 
her  arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed  him  vehemently. 

"I  can  give  you  a  kiss  today,"  she  said  apologetically. 
"You've  looked  so  white,  it's  made  my  heart  ache." 

Paul  kissed  her,  and  left  her.  Her  arms  were  so  pitifully 
thin  that  his  heart  ached  also. 

That  day  he  met  Clara  as  he  ran  downstairs  to  wash  his 
hands  at  dinner-time. 

"You  have  stayed  to  dinner! "  he  exclaimed.  It  was  unusual 
for  her. 

"Yes;  and  I  seem  to  have  dined  on  old  surgical-appliance 
stock.  I  must  go  out  now,  or  I  shall  feel  stale  india-rubber 
right  through." 

She  lingered.  He  instantly  caught  at  her  wish. 

"You  are  going  anywhere?"  he  asked. 

They  went  together  up  to  the  Castle.  Outdoors  she  dressed 
very  plainly,  down  to  ugliness;  indoors  she  always  looked 
nice.  She  walked  with  hesitating  steps  alongside  Paul,  bow- 
ing and  turning  away  from  him.  Dowdy  in  dress,  and  droop- 
ing, she  showed  to  great  disadvantage.  He  could  scarcely 
recognize  her  strong  form,  that  seemed  to  slumber  with 
power.  She  appeared  almost  insignificant,  drowning  her 
stature  in  her  stoop,  as  she  shrank  from  the  public  gaze. 

The  Castle  grounds  were  very  green  and  fresh.  Climbing 
the  precipitous  ascent,  he  laughed  and  chattered,  but  she 
was  silent,  seeming  to  brood  over  something.  There  was 
scarcely  time  to  go  inside  the  squat,  square  building  that 


3  1 8  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

crowns  the  bluff  of  rock.  They  leaned  upon  the  wall  where 
the  cliff  runs  sheer  down  to  the  Park.  Below  them,  in  their 
holes  in  the  sandstone,  pigeons  preened  themselves  and  cooed 
softly.  Away  down  upon  the  boulevard  at  the  foot  of  the 
rock,  tiny  trees  stood  in  their  own  pools  of  shadow,  and  tiny 
people  went  scurrying  about  in  almost  ludicrous  importance. 

"You  feel  as  if  you  could  scoop  up  the  folk  like  tadpoles, 
and  have  a  handful  of  them,"  he  said. 

She  laughed,  answering. 

"Yes;  it  is  not  necessary  to  get  far  off  in  order  to  see  us 
proportionately.  The  trees  are  much  more  significant." 
"Bulk  only,"  he  said. 
She  laughed  cynically. 

Away  beyond  the  boulevard  the  thin  stripes  of  the  metals 
showed  upon  the  railway  track,  whose  margin  was  crowded 
with  little  stacks  of  timber,  beside  which  smoking  toy  en- 
gines fussed.  Then  the  silver  string  of  the  canal  lay  at  random 
umong  the  black  heaps.  Beyond,  the  dwellings,  very  dense 
on  the  river  flat,  looked  like  black,  poisonous  herbage,  in 
thick  rows  and  crowded  beds,  stretching  right  away,  broken 
now  and  then  by  taller  plants,  right  to  where  the  river 
glistened  in  a  hieroglyph  across  the  country.  The  steep 
scarp  cliffs  across  the  river  looked  puny.  Great  stretches 
of  country  darkened  with  trees  and  faintly  brightened  with 
corn-land,  spread  towards  the  haze,  where  the  hills  rose 
blue  beyond  grey. 

"It  is  comforting,"  said  Mrs.  Dawes,  "to  think  the  town 
goes  no  farther.  It  is  only  a  little  sore  upon  the  country 
yet." 

"A  little  scab,"  Paul  said. 

She  shivered.  She  loathed  the  town.  Looking  drearily 
across  at  the  country  which  was  forbidden  her,  her  impassive 
face  pale  and  hostile,  she  reminded  Paul  of  one  of  the  bitter, 
remorseful  angels. 

"But  the  town's  all  right,"  he  said;  "it's  only  temporary. 
This  is  the  crude,  clumsy  make-shift  we've  practised  on,  till 
we  find  out  what  the  idea  is.  The  town  will  come  all  right." 

The  pigeons  in  the  pockets  of  rock,  among  the  perched 


CLARA  319 

bushes,  cooed  comfortably.  To  the  left  the  large  church  of 
St.  Mary  rose  into  space,  to  keep  close  company  with  the 
Castle,  above  the  heaped  rubble  of  the  town.  Mrs.  Dawes 
smiled  brightly  as  she  looked  across  the  country. 
"I  feel  better,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,"  he  replied.  "Great  compliment!" 
"Oh,  my  brother!"  she  laughed. 

"H'm!  that's  snatching  back  with  the  left  hand  what  you 
gave  with  the  right,  and  no  mistake,"  he  said. 
She  laughed  in  amusement  at  him. 

"But  what  was  the  matter  with  you?"  he  asked.  "I  know 
you  were  brooding  something  special.  I  can  see  the  stamp 
of  it  on  your  face  yet." 

"I  think  I  will  not  tell  you,"  she  said. 

"All  right,  hug  it,"  he  answered. 

She  flushed  and  bit  her  lip. 

"No,"  she  said,  "it  was  the  girls." 

"What  about  'em?"  Paul  asked. 

"They  have  been  plotting  something  for  a  week  now,  and 
today  they  seem  particularly  full  of  it.  All  alike;  they  in- 
sult me  with  their  secrecy." 

"Do  they?"  he  asked  in  concern. 

"I  should  not  mind,"  she  went  on,  in  the  metallic,  angry 
tone,  "if  they  did  not  thrust  it  into  my  face— the  fact  that 
they  have  a  secret." 

"Just  like  women,"  said  he. 

"It  is  hateful,  their  mean  gloating,"  she  said  intensely. 

Paul  was  silent.  He  knew  what  the  girls  gloated  over.  He 
was  sorry  to  be  the  cause  of  this  new  dissension. 

"They  can  have  all  the  secrets  in  the  world,"  she  went  on, 
brooding  bitterly;  "but  they  might  refrain  from  glorying 
in  them,  and  making  me  feel  more  out  of  it  than  ever.  It  is— 
it  is  almost  unbearable." 

Paul  thought  for  a  few  minutes.  He  was  much  perturbed. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  it's  all  about,"  he  said,  pale  and  nerv- 
ous. "It's  my  birthday,  and  they've  bought  me  a  fine  lot  of 
paints,  all  the  girls.  They're  jealous  of  you"— he  felt  her 
stiffen  coldly  at  the  word  "jealous"— "merely  because  I  some- 


3  20  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

times  bring  you  a  book,"  he  added  slowly.  "But,  you  see,  it's 
only  a  trifle.  Don't  bother  about  it,  will  you— because'— he 
laughed  quickly— "well,  what  would  they  say  if  they  saw  us 
here  now,  in  spite  of  their  victory?" 

She  was  angry  with  him  for  his  clumsy  reference  to 
their  present  intimacy.  It  was  almost  insolent  of  him.  Yet 
he  was  so  quiet,  she  forgave  him,  although  it  cost  her  an 
effort. 

Their  two  hands  lay  on  the  rough  stone  parapet  of  the 
Castle  wall.  He  had  inherited  from  his  mother  a  fineness  of 
mould,  so  that  his  hands  were  small  and  vigorous.  Hers  were 
large,  to  match  her  large  limbs,  but  white  and  powerful 
looking.  As  Paul  looked  at  them  he  knew  her.  "She  is  want- 
ing somebody  to  take  her  hands— for  all  she  is  so  contemptu- 
ous of  us,"  he  said  to  himself.  And  she  saw  nothing  but  his 
two  hands,  so  warm  and  alive,  which  seemed  to  live  for 
her.  He  was  brooding  now,  staring  out  over  the  country 
from  under  sullen  brows.  The  little,  interesting  diversity  of 
shapes  had  vanished  from  the  scene;  all  that  remained  was  a 
vast,  dark  matrix  of  sorrow  and  tragedy,  the  same  in  all  the 
houses  and  the  river-flats  and  the  people  and  the  birds;  they 
were  only  shapen  differently.  And  now  that  the  forms 
seemed  to  have  melted  away,  there  remained  the  mass  from 
which  all  the  landscape  was  composed,  a  dark  mass  of  strug- 
gle and  pain.  The  factory,  the  girls,  his  mother,  the  large, 
uplifted  church,  the  thicket  of  the  towTn,  merged  into  one 
atmosphere— dark,  brooding,  and  sorrowful,  every  bit. 

"Is  that  two  o'clock  striking?"  Mrs.  Dawes  said  in  surprise. 

Paul  started,  and  everything  sprang  into  form,  regained 
its  individuality,  its  forgetfulness,  and  its  cheerfulness. 

They  hurried  back  to  work. 

When  he  was  in  the  rush  of  preparing  for  the  night's  post, 
examining  the  work  up  from  Fanny's  room,  which  smelt  of 
ironing,  the  evening  postman  came  in. 

"  'Mr.  Paul  Morel,'  "  he  said  smiling,  handing  Paul  a  pack- 
age. "A  lady's  handwriting!  Don't  let  the  girls  see  it." 

The  postman,  himself  a  favourite,  was  pleased  to  make  fun 
of  the  girls'  affection  for  Paul. 


CLARA  321 

It  was  a  volume  of  verse  with  a  brief  note:  "You  will 
allow  me  to  send  you  this,  and  so  spare  me  my  isolation. 
I  also  sympathize  and  wish  you  well.— C.  D."  Paul  flushed 
hot. 

"Good  Lord!  Mrs.  Dawes.  She  can't  afford  it.  Good  Lord, 
who  ever'd  have  thought  it!" 

He  was  suddenly  intensely  moved.  He  was  filled  with 
the  warmth  of  her.  In  the  glow  he  could  almost  feel  her  as 
if  she  were  present— her  arms,  her  shoulders,  her  besom,  see 
them,  feel  them,  almost  contain  them. 

This  move  on  the  part  of  Clara  brought  them  into  closer 
intimacy.  The  other  girls  noticed  that  when  Paul  met  Mrs. 
Dawes  his  eyes  lifted  and  gave  that  peculiar  bright  greeting 
which  they  could  interpret.  Knowing  he  was  unaware,  Clara 
made  no  sign,  save  that  occasionally  she  turned  aside  her  face 
from  him  when  he  came  upon  her. 

They  walked  out  together  very  often  at  dinner-time;  it 
was  quite  open,  quite  frank.  Everybody  seemed  to  feel  that 
he  was  quite  unaware  of  the  state  of  his  own  feeling,  and 
that  nothing  was  wrong.  He  talked  to  her  now  with  some 
of  the  old  fervour  with  which  he  had  talked  to  Miriam,  but 
he  cared  less  about  the  talk;  he  did  not  bother  about  his 
conclusions. 

One  day  in  October  they  went  out  to  Lambley  for  tea. 
Suddenly  they  came  to  a  halt  on  top  of  the  hill.  He  climbed 
and  sat  on  a  gate,  she  sat  on  the  stile.  The  afternoon  was 
perfectly  still,  with  a  dim  haze,  and  yellow  sheaves  glowing 
through.  They  were  quiet. 

"How  old  were  you  when  you  married?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Twenty-two." 

Her  voice  was  subdued,  almost  submissive.  She  would  tell 
him  now. 

"It  is  eight  years  ago?" 
"Yes." 

"And  when  did  you  leave  him?" 
"Three  years  ago." 

"Five  years!  Did  you  love  him  when  you  married  him?" 
She  was  silent  for  some  time;  then  she  said  slowly: 


32  2  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"I  thought  I  did— more  or  less.  I  didn't  think  much  about 
it.  And  he  wanted  me.  I  was  very  prudish  then." 

"And  you  sort  of  walked  into  it  without  thinking?" 

"Yes.  I  seemed  to  have  been  asleep  nearly  all  my  life." 

"Somnambule?  But— when  did  you  wake  up?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  did,  or  ever  have— since  I  was 
a  child." 

"You  went  to  sleep  as  you  grew  to  be  a  woman?  How 
queer!  And  he  didn't  wake  you?" 

"No;  he  never  got  there,"  she  replied,  in  a  monotone. 

The  brown  birds  dashed  over  the  hedges  where  the  rose- 
hips stood  naked  and  scarlet. 

"Got  where?"  he  asked. 

"At  me.  He  never  really  mattered  to  me." 

The  afternoon  was  so  gently  warm  and  dim.  Red  roofs  of 
the  cottages  burned  among  the  blue  haze.  He  loved  the  day. 
He  could  feel,  but  he  could  not  understand,  what  Clara  was 
saying. 

"But  why  did  you  leave  him?  Was  he  horrid  to  you?" 
She  shuddered  lightly. 

"He— he  sort  of  degraded  me.  He  wanted  to  bully  me 
because  he  hadn't  got  me.  And  then  I  felt  as  if  I  wanted  to 
run,  as  if  I  was  fastened  and  bound  up.  And  he  seemed 
dirty." 

"I  see." 

He  did  not  at  all  see. 

"And  was  he  always  dirty?"  he  asked. 

"A  bit,"  she  replied  slowly.  "And  then  he  seemed  as  if 
he  couldn't  get  at  me,  really.  And  then  he  got  brutal— he 
was  brutal!" 

"And  why  did  you  leave  him  finally?" 

"Because— because  he  was  unfaithful  to  me  " 

They  were  both  silent  for  some  time.  Her  hand  lay  on  the 
gate-post  as  she  balanced.  He  put  his  own  over  it.  His  heart 
beat  thickly. 

"But  did  you— were  you  ever— did  you  ever  give  him  a 
phance?" 
"Chance?  How?" 


CLARA  32 J 

"To  cbme  near  to  you." 

"I  married  him— and  I  was  willing  " 

They  both  strove  to  keep  their  voices  steady. 
"I  believe  he  loves  you,"  he  said. 
"It  looks  like  it,"  she  replied. 

He  wanted  to  take  his  hand  away,  and  could  not.  She 
saved  him  by  removing  her  own.  After  a  silence,  he  began 
again: 

"Did  you  leave  him  out  of  count  all  along?" 
"He  left  me,"  she  said. 

"And  I  suppose  he  couldn't  make  himself  mean  everything 
to  you?" 

"He  tried  to  bully  me  into  it." 

But  the  conversation  had  got  them  both  out  of  their 
depth.  Suddenly  Paul  jumped  down. 

"Come  on,"  he  said.  "Let's  go  and  get  some  tea." 

They  found  a  cottage,  where  they  sat  in  the  cold  parlour. 
She  poured  out  his  tea.  She  was  very  quiet.  He  felt  she  had 
withdrawn  again  from  him.  After  tea,  she  stared  broodingly 
into  her  teacup,  twisting  her  wedding  ring  all  the  time.  In 
her  abstraction  she  took  the  ring  off  her  finger,  stood  it  up, 
and  spun  it  upon  the  table.  The  gold  became  a  diaphanous, 
glittering  globe.  It  fell,  and  the  ring  was  quivering  upon 
the  table.  She  spun  it  again  and  again.  Paul  watched,  fasci- 
nated. 

But  she  was  a  married  woman,  and  he  believed  in  sim- 
ple friendship.  And  he  considered  that  he  was  perfectly 
honourable  with  regard  to  her.  It  was  only  a  friendship 
between  man  and  woman,  such  as  any  civilized  persons 
might  have. 

He  was  like  so  many  young  men  of  his  own  age.  Sex  had 
become  so  complicated  in  him  that  he  would  have  denied 
that  he  ever  could  want  Clara  or  Miriam  or  any  woman 
whom  he  knew.  Sex  desire  was  a  sort  of  detached  thing, 
that  did  not  belong  to  a  woman.  He  loved  Miriam  with  his 
soul.  He  grew  warm  at  the  thought  of  Clara,  he  battled  with 
her,  he  knew  the  curves  of  her  breast  and  shoulders  as  if 
they  had  been  moulded  inside  him;  and  yet  he  did  not  posi- 


324  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

tively  desire  her.  He  would  have  denied  it  for  ever.  He  be- 
lieved himself  really  bound  to  Miriam.  If  ever  he  should 
marry,  some  time  in  the  far  future,  it  would  be  his  duty  to 
marry  Miriam.  That  he  gave  Clara  to  understand,  and  she 
said  nothing,  but  left  him  to  his  courses.  He  came  to  her, 
Mrs.  Dawes,  whenever  he  could.  Then  he  wrote  frequently 
to  Miriam,  and  visited  the  girl  occasionally.  So  he  went  on 
through  the  winter;  but  he  seemed  not  so  fretted.  His  mother 
was  easier  about  him.  She  thought  he  was  getting  away 
from  Miriam. 

Miriam  knew  now  how  strong  was  the  attraction  of  Clara 
for  him;  but  still  she  was  certain  that  the  best  in  him  would 
triumph.  His  feeling  for  Mrs.  Dawes— who,  moreover,  was 
a  married  woman— was  shallow  and  temporal,  compared  with 
his  love  for  herself.  He  would  come  back  to  her,  she  wTas 
sure;  with  some  of  his  young  freshness  gone,  perhaps,  but 
cured  of  his  desire  for  the  lesser  things  which  other  women 
than  herself  could  give  him.  She  could  bear  all  if  he  were 
inwardly  true  to  her  and  must  come  back. 

He  saw  none  of  the  anomaly  of  his  position.  Miriam  was 
his  old  friend,  lover,  and  she  belonged  to  Bestwood  and 
home  and  his  youth.  Clara  was  a  newer  friend,  and  she  be- 
longed to  Nottingham,  to  life,  to  the  world.  It  seemed  to  him 
quite  plain.  j 

Mrs.  Dawes  and  he  had  many  periods  of  coolness,  when 
they  saw  little  of  each  other;  but  they  always  came  together 
again. 

"Were  you  horrid  with  Baxter  Dawes?"  he  asked  her.  It 
was  a  thing  that  seemed  to  trouble  him. 
"In  what  way?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  But  weren't  you  horrid  with  him? 
Didn't  you  do  something  that  knocked  him  to  pieces?" 
"What,  pray?" 

"Making  him  feel  as  if  he  were  nothing—/  know,"  Paul 
declared. 

"You  are  so  clever,  my  friend,"  she  said  coolly. 
The  conversation  broke  off  there.  But  it  made  her  cool 
with  him  for  some  time. 


I 

CLARA  325 

She  very  rarely  saw  Miriam  now.  The  friendship  between 
the  two  women  was  not  broken  off,  but  considerably 
weakened. 

"Will  you  come  in  to  the  concert  on  Sunday  afternoon?" 
Clara  asked  him  just  after  Christmas. 
M  promised  to  go  up  to  Willey  Farm,"  he  replied. 
"Oh,  very  well." 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you?"  he  asked. 
"Why  should  I?"  she  answered.  I 
Which  almost  annoyed  him.  . 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "Miriam  and  I  have  been  a  lot  to 
each  other  ever  since  I  was  sixteen— that's  seven  years  now." 
"It's  a  long  time,"  Clara  replied. 

"Yes;  but  somehow  she— it  doesn't  go  right  " 

"How?"  asked  Clara. 

"She  seems  to  draw  me  and  draw  me,  and  she  wouldn't 
leave  a  single  hair  of  me  free  to  fall  out  and  blow  away— 
she'd  keep  it." 

"But  you  like  to  be  kept." 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  don't.  I  wish  it  could  be  normal,  give 
and  take— like  me  and  you.  I  want  a  woman  to  keep  me,  but 
not  in  her  pocket." 

"But  if  you  love  her,  it  couldn't  be  normal,  like  me  and 
you." 

"Yes;  I  should  love  her  better  then.  She  sort  of  wants  me 
so  much  that  I  can't  give  myself." 
"Wants  you  how?" 

"Wants  the  soul  out  of  my  body.  I  can't  help  shrinking 
back  from  her." 

"And  yet  you  love  her!" 

"No,  I  don't  love  her.  I  never  even  kiss  her." 

"Why  not?"  Clara  asked. 

"I  don't  know." 

"I  suppose  you're  afraid,"  she  said. 
"I'm  not.  Something  in  me  shrinks  from  her  like  hell- 
she's  so  good,  when  I'm  not  good." 
"How  do  you  know  what  she  is?" 
"I  do!  I  know  she  wants  a  sort  of  soul  union." 


326  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"But  how  do  you  know  what  she  wants?" 
"I've  been  with  her  for  seven  years." 
"And  you  haven't  found  out  the  very  first  thing  about 
her." 
"What's  that?" 

"That  she  doesn't  want  any  of  your  soul  communion. 
That's  your  own  imagination.  She  wants  you." 
He  pondered  over  this.  Perhaps  he  was  wrong. 
"But  she  seems—"  he  began. 
"You've  never  tried,"  she  answered. 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM 


WITH  the  spring  came  again  the  old  madness  and  battle. 
Now  he  knew  he  would  have  to  go  to  Miriam.  But 
what  was  his  reluctance?  He  told  himself  it  was  only  a 
sort  of  overstrong  virginity  in  her  and  him  which  neither 
could  break  through.  He  might  have  married  her;  but  his 
circumstances  at  home  made  it  difficult,  and,  moreover,  he 
did  not  want  to  marry.  Marriage  was  for  life,  and  because 
they  had  become  close  companions,  he  and  she,  he  did  not 
see  that  it  should  inevitably  follow  they  should  be  man  and 
wife.  He  did  not  feel  that  he  wanted  marriage  with  Miriam. 
He  wished  he  did.  He  would  have  given  his  head  to  have 
felt  a  joyous  desire  to  marry  her  and  to  have  her.  Then 
why  couldn't  he  bring  it  off?  There  was  some  obstacle;  and 
what  was  the  obstacle?  It  lay  in  the  physical  bondage.  He 
shrank  from  the  physical  contact.  But  why?  With  her  he 
felt  bound  up  inside  himself.  He  could  not  go  out  to  her. 
Something  struggled  in  him,  but  he  could  not  get  to  her. 
Why?  She  loved  him.  Clara  said  she  even  wanted  him;  then 
why  couldn't  he  go  to  her,  make  love  to  her,  kiss  her?  Why, 
when  she  put  her  arm  in  his,  timidly,  as  they  walked,  did  he 
feel  he  would  burst  forth  in  brutality  and  recoil?  He  owed 
himself  to  her;  he  wanted  to  belong  to  her.  Perhaps  the  recoil 
and  the  shrinking  from  her  was  love  in  its  first  fierce  mod- 
esty. He  had  no  aversion  for  her.  No,  it  was  the  opposite; 
it  was  a  strong  desire  battling  with  a  still  stronger  shyness 
and  virginity.  It  seemed  as  if  virginity  were  a  positive  force, 
which  fought  and  won  in  both  of  them.  And  with  her  he 
felt  it  so  hard  to  overcome;  yet  he  was  nearest  to  her,  and 
with  her  alone  could  he  deliberately  break  through.  And  he 
owed  himself  to  her.  Then,  if  they  could  get  things  right, 

327 


328  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

they  could  marry;  but  he  would  not  marry  unless  he  could 
feel  strong  in  the  joy  of  it— never.  He  could  not  have  faced 
his  mother.  It  seemed  to  him  that  to  sacrifice  himself  in  a 
marriage  he  did  not  want  would  be  degrading,  and  would 
'  undo  all  his  life,  make  it  a  nullity.  He  would  try  what  he 
could  do. 

And  he  had  a  great  tenderness  for  Miriam.  Always,  she 
was  sad,  dreaming  her  religion;  and  he  was  nearly  a  religion 
to  her.  He  could  not  bear  to  fail  her.  It  would  all  come  right 
if  they  tried. 

He  looked  round.  A  good  many  of  the  nicest  men  he  knew 
were  like  himself,  bound  in  by  their  own  virginity,  which 
they  could  not  break  out  of.  They  were  so  sensitive  to  their 
women  that  they  would  go  without  them  for  ever  rather 
than  do  them  a  hurt,  an  injustice.  Being  the  sons  of  mothers 
whose  husbands  had  blundered  rather  brutally  through  their 
feminine  sanctities,  they  were  themselves  too  diffident  and 
shy.  They  could  easier  deny  themselves  than  incur  any  re- 
proach from  a  woman;  for  a  woman  was  like  their  mother, 
and  they  were  full  of  the  sense  of  their  mother.  They  pre- 
ferred themselves  to  suffer  the  misery  of  celibacy,  rather 
than  risk  the  other  person. 

He  went  back  to  her.  Something  in  her,  when  he  looked 
at  her,  brought  the  tears  almost  to  his  eyes.  One  day  he 
stood  behind  her  as  she  sang.  Annie  was  playing  a  song  on 
the  piano.  As  Miriam  sang  her  mouth  seemed  hopeless.  She 
sang  like  a  nun  singing  to  heaven.  It  reminded  him  so  much 
of  the  mouth  and  eyes  of  one  who  sings  beside  a  Botticelli 
Madonna,  so  spiritual.  Again,  hot  as  steel,  came  up  the  pain 
in  him.  Why  must  he  ask  her  for  the  other  thing?  Why  was 
there  his  blood  battling  with  her?  If  only  he  could  have  been 
always  gentle,  tender  with  her,  breathing  with  her  the  at- 
mosphere of  reverie  and  religious  dreams,  he  would  give  his 
right  hand.  It  was  not  fair  to  hurt  her.  There  seemed  an 
eternal  maidenhood  about  her;  and  when  he  thought  of  her 
mother,  he  saw  the  great  brown  eyes  of  a  maiden  who  was 
nearly  scared  and  shocked  out  of  her  virgin  maidenhood, 
but  not  quite,  in  spite  of  her  seven  children.  They  had  been 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  329 

born  almost  leaving  her  out  of  count,  not  of  her,  but  upon 
her.  So  she  could  never  let  them  go,  because  she  never  had 
possessed  them. 

Mrs.  Morel  saw  him  going  again  frequently  to  Miriam, 
and  was  astonished.  He  said  nothing  to  his  mother.  He  did 
not  explain  nor  excuse  himself.  If  he  came  home  late,  and  she 
reproached  him,  he  frowned  and  turned  on  her  in  an  over- 
bearing way: 

"I  shall  come  home  when  I  like,"  he  said;  "I  am  old 
enough." 

"Must  she  keep  you  till  this  time?" 

"It  is  I  who  stay,"  he  answered. 

"And  she  lets  you?  But  very  well,"  she  said. 

And  she  went  to  bed,  leaving  the  door  unlocked  for  him; 
but  she  lay  listening  until  he  came,  often  long  after.  It  was 
a  great  bitterness  to  her  that  he  had  gone  back  to  Miriam. 
She  recognized,  however,  the  uselessness  of  any  further  in- 
terference. He  went  to  Willey  Farm  as  a  man  now,  not  as  a 
youth.  She  had  no  right  over  him.  There  was  a  coldness 
between  him  and  her.  He  hardly  told  her  anything.  Dis- 
carded, she  waited  on  him,  cooked  for  him  still,  and  loved 
to  slave  for  him;  but  her  face  closed  again  like  a  mask.  There 
was  nothing  for  her  to  do  now  but  the  housework;  for  all 
the  rest  he  had  gone  to  Miriam.  She  could  not  forgive  him. 
Miriam  killed  the  joy  and  the  warmth  in  him.  He  had  been 
such  a  jolly  lad,  and  full  of  the  warmest  affection;  now  he 
grew  colder,  more  and  more  irritable  and  gloomy.  It  re- 
minded her  of  William;  but  Paul  was  worse.  He  did  things 
with  more  intensity,  and  more  realization  of  what  he  was 
about.  His  mother  knew  how  he  was  suffering  for  want  of 
a  woman,  and  she  saw  him  going  to  Miriam.  If  he  had  made 
up  his  mind,  nothing  on  earth  would  alter  him.  Mrs.  Morel 
was  tired.  She  began  to  give  up  at  last;  she  had  finished. 
She  was  in  the  way. 

He  went  on  determinedly.  He  realized  more  or  less  what 
his  mother  felt.  It  only  hardened  his  soul.  He  made  himself 
callous  towards  her;  but  it  was  like  being  callous  to  his  own 
health.  It  undermined  him  quickly;  yet  he  persisted. 


330  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

He  lay  back  in  the  rocking-chair  at  Willey  Farm  one 
evening.  He  had  been  talking  to  Miriam  for  some  weeks, 
but  had  not  come  to  the  point.  Now  he  said  suddenly: 

"I  am  twenty-four,  almost." 

She  had  been  brooding.  She  looked  up  at  him  suddenly 
(n  surprise. 

"Yes.  What  makes  you  say  it?" 

There  was  something  in  the  charged  atmosphere  that  she 
dreaded. 

"Sir  Thomas  More  says  one  can  marry  at  twenty-four." 
She  laughed  quaintly,  saying: 
"Does  it  need  Sir  Thomas  More's  sanction?" 
"No;  but  one  ought  to  marry  about  then." 
"Ay,"  she  answered  broodingly;  and  she  waited. 
"I  can't  marry  you,"  he  continued  slowly,  "not  now,  be- 
cause we've  no  money,  and  they  depend  on  me  at  home." 
She  sat  half-guessing  what  was  coming. 

"But  I  want  to  marry  now  " 

"You  want  to  marry?"  she  repeated. 
"A  woman— you  know  what  I  mean." 
She  was  silent. 

"Now,  at  last,  I  must,"  he  said. 
"Ay,"  she  answered. 
"And  you  love  me?" 
She  laughed  bitterly. 

"Why  are  you  ashamed  of  it?"  he  answered.  "You 
wouldn't  be  ashamed  before  your  God,  why  are  you  before 
people?" 

"Nay,"  she  answered  deeply,  "I  am  not  ashamed." 

"You  are,"  he  replied  bitterly;  "and  it's  my  fault.  But 
you  know  I  can't  help  being— as  I  am— don't  you?" 

"I  know  you  can't  help  it,"  she  replied. 

"I  love  you  an  awful  lot— then  there  is  something  short." 

"Where?"  she  answered,  looking  at  him. 

"Oh,  in  me!  It  is  I  who  ought  to  be  ashamed— like  a 
spiritual  cripple.  And  I  am  ashamed.  It  is  misery.  Why  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Miriam. 

"And  I  don't  know,"  he  repeated.  "Don't  you  think  we 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  33 1 

have  been  too  fierce  in  our  what  they  call  purity?  Don't 
you  think  that  to  be  so  much  afraid  and  averse  is  a  sort  of 
dirtiness?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled  dark  eyes. 
"You  recoiled  away  from  anything  of  the  sort,  and  I 
took  the  motion  from  you,  and  recoiled  also,  perhaps  worse." 
There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  some  time. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  so." 

"There  is  between  us,"  he  said,  "all  these  years  of  inti- 
macy. I  feel  naked  enough  before  you.  Do  you  understand?" 
"I  think  so,"  she  answered. 
"And  you  love  me?" 
She  laughed. 

"Don't  be  bitter,"  he  pleaded. 

She  looked  at  him  and  was  sorry  for  him;  his  eyes  were 
dark  with  torture.  She  was  sorry  for  him;  it  was  worse 
for  him  to  have  this  deflected  love  than  for  herself,  who 
could  never  be  properly  mated.  He  was  restless,  for  ever 
urging  forward  and  trying  to  find  a  way  out.  He  might  do 
as  he  liked,  and  have  what  he  liked  of  her. 

"Nay,"  she  said  softly,  "I  am  not  bitter." 

She  felt  she  could  bear  anything  for  him;  she  would  suffer 
for  him.  She  put  her  hand  on  his  knee  as  he  leaned  forward 
in  his  chair.  He  took  it  and  kissed  it;  but  it  hurt  to  do  so. 
He  felt  he  was  putting  himself  aside.  He  sat  there  sacrificed 
to  her  purity,  which  felt  more  like  nullity.  How  could  he 
kiss  her  hand  passionately,  when  it  would  drive  her  away, 
and  leave  nothing  but  pain?  Yet  slowly  he  drew  her  to  him 
and  kissed  her. 

They  knew  each  other  too  well  to  pretend  anything.  As 
she  kissed  him,  she  watched  his  eyes;  they  were  staring 
across  the  room,  with  a  peculiar  dark  blaze  in  them  that 
fascinated  her.  He  was  perfectly  still.  She  could  feel  his 
heart  throbbing  heavily  in  his  breast. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  she  asked. 

The  blaze  in  his  eyes  shuddered,  became  uncertain. 

"I  was  thinking,  all  the  while,  I  love  you.  I  have  beetf 
obstinate." 


332  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

She  sank  her  head  on  his  breast. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"That's  all,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  seemed  sure,  and  his 
mouth  was  kissing  her  throat. 

Then  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  into  his  eyes  with 
her  full  gaze  of  love.  The  blaze  struggled,  seemed  to  try  to 
get  away  from  her,  and  then  was  quenched.  He  turned  his 
head  quickly  aside.  It  was  a  moment  of  anguish. 

"Kiss  me,"  she  whispered. 

He  shut  his  eyes,  and  kissed  her,  and  his  arms  folded  her 
closer  and  closer. 

When  she  walked  home  with  him  over  the  fields,  he  said: 

"I  am  glad  I  came  back  to  you.  I  feel  so  simple  with  you— 
as  if  there  was  nothing  to  hide.  We  will  be  happy?" 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  and  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"Some  sort  of  perversity  in  our  souls,"  he  said,  "makes  us 
lot  want,  get  away  from,  the  very  thing  we  want.  We  have 
io  fight  against  that." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  she  felt  stunned. 

As  she  stood  under  the  drooping  thorn-tree,  in  the  dark- 
ness by  the  roadside,  he  kissed  her,  and  his  fingers  wandered 
over  her  face.  In  the  darkness,  where  he  could  not  see  her 
but  only  feel  her,  his  passion  flooded  him.  He  clasped  her 
very  close. 

"Sometime  you  will  have  me?"  he  murmured,  hiding  his 
face  on  her  shoulder.  It  was  so  difficult. 
"Not  now,"  she  said. 

His  hopes  and  his  heart  sunk.  A  dreariness  came  over  him. 
"No,"  he  said. 

His  clasp  of  her  slackened. 

"I  love  to  feel  your  arm  therel"  she  said,  pressing  his  arm 
against  her  back,  where  it  went  round  her  waist.  "It  rests 
me  so." 

He  tightened  the  pressure  of  his  arm  upon  the  small  of  her 
back  to  rest  her. 

"We  belong  to  each  other,"  he  said. 

"Yes." 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  333 

"Then  why  shouldn't  we  belong  to  each  other  alto- 
gether?" 

"But-"  she  faltered. 

"I  know  it's  a  lot  to  ask,"  he  said;  "but  there's  not  much 
risk  for  you  really— not  in  the  Gretchen  way.  You  can  trust 
me  there?" 

"Oh,  I  can  trust  you."  The  answer  came  quick  and  strong. 

"It's  not  that— it's  not  that  at  all— but  " 

"What?" 

She  hid  her  face  in  his  neck  with  a  little  cry  of  misery. 
"I  don't  know!"  she  cried. 

She  seemed  slightly  hysterical,  but  with  a  sort  of  horror. 
His  heart  died  in  him. 

"You  don't  think  it  ugly?"  he  asked. 

"No,  not  now.  You  have  taught  me  it  isn't." 

"You  are  afraid?" 

She  calmed  herself  hastily. 

"Yes,  I  am  only  afraid,"  she  said. 

He  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said.  "You  shall  please  yourself." 

Suddenly  she  gripped  her  arms  round  him,  and  clenched 
her  body  stiff. 

"You  shall  have  me,"  she  said,  through  her  shut  teeth. 

His  heart  beat  up  again  like  fire.  He  folded  her  close,  and 
his  mouth  was  on  her  throat.  She  could  not  bear  it.  She  drew 
away.  He  disengaged  her. 

"Won't  you  be  late?"  she  asked  gently. 

He  sighed,  scarcely  hearing  what  she  said.  She  waited, 
wishing  he  would  go.  At  last  he  kissed  her  quickly  and 
climbed  the  fence.  Looking  round  he  saw  the  pale  blotch 
of  her  face  down  in  the  darkness  under  the  hanging  tree 
There  was  no  more  of  her  but  this  pale  blotch. 

"Good-bye!"  she  called  softly.  She  had  no  body,  only 
a  voice  and  a  dim  face.  Fie  turned  away  and  ran  down  the 
road,  his  fists  clenched;  and  when  he  came  to  the  wall  over 
the  lake  he  leaned  there,  almost  stunned,  looking  up  the 
black  water. 


334  SONS  AND  lovers 

Miriam  plunged  home  over  the  meadows.  She  was  not 
afraid  of  people,  what  they  might  say;  but  she  dreaded  the 
issue  with  him.  Yes,  she  would  let  him  have  her  if  he  insisted; 
and  then,  when  she  thought  of  it  afterwards,  her  heart  went 
down.  He  would  be  disappointed,  he  would  find  no  satisfac- 
V  tion,  and  then  he  would  go  away.  Yet  he  was  so  insistent; 
and  over  this,  which  did  not  seem  so  all-important  to  her, 
was  their  love  to  break  down.  After  all,  he  was  only  like 
other  men,  seeking  his  satisfaction.  Oh,  but  there  was  some- 
thing more  in  him,  something  deeper!  She  could  trust  to  it, 
in  spite  of  all  desires.  He  said  that  possession  was  a  great 
moment  in  life.  All  strong  emotions  concentrated  there. 
Perhaps  it  was  so.  There  was  something  divine  in  it;  then 
she  would  submit,  religiously,  to  the  sacrifice.  He  should 
have  her.  And  at  the  thought  her  whole  body  clenched  itself 
involuntarily,  hard,  as  if  against  something;  but  Life  forced 
her  through  this  gate  of  suffering,  too,  and  she  would  sub- 
mit. At  any  rate,  it  would  give  him  what  he  wanted,  which 
was  her  deepest  wish.  She  brooded  and  brooded  and  brooded 
herself  towards  accepting  him. 

He  courted  her  now  like  a  lover.  Often,  when  he  grew 
hot,  she  put  his  face  from  her,  held  it  between  her  hands, 
and  looked  in  his  eyes.  He  could  not  meet  her  gaze.  Her 
dark  eyes,  full  of  love,  earnest  and  searching,  made  him  turn 
away.  Not  for  an  instant  would  she  let  him  forget.  Back 
again  he  had  to  torture  himself  into  a  sense  of  his  responsi- 
bility and  hers.  Never  any  relaxing,  never  any  leaving  him- 
self to  the  great  hunger  and  impersonality  of  passion;  he 
must  be  brought  back  to  a  deliberate,  reflective  creature. 
As  if  from  a  swoon  of  passion  she  called  him  back  to  the 
littleness,  the  personal  relationship.  He  could  not  bear  it. 
"Leave  me  alone— leave  me  alone!"  he  wanted  to  cry;  but  she 
wanted  him  to  look  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  love.  His  eyes, 
full  of  the  dark,  impersonal  fire  of  desire,  did  not  belong 
to  her. 

There  was  a  great  crop  of  cherries  at  the  farm.  The  trees 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  very  large  and  tall,  hung  thick 
«rith  scarlet  and  crimson  drops,  under  the  dark  leaves.  Paul 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  33 j 

and  Edgar  were  gathering  in  the  fruit  one  evening.  It  had 
been  a  hot  day,  and  now  the  clouds  were  rolling  in  the 
sky,  dark  and  warm.  Paul  climbed  high  in  the  tree,  above 
the  scarlet  roofs  of  the  buildings.  The  wind,  moaning  stead- 
ily, made  the  whole  tree  rock  with  a  subtle,  thrilling  motion 
that  stirred  the  blood.  The  young  man,  perched  insecurely 
in  the  slender  branches,  rocked  till  he  felt  slightly  drunk, 
reached  down  the  boughs,  where  the  scarlet  beady  cherries 
hung  thick  underneath,  and  tore  off  handful  after  handful 
of  the  sleek,  cool-fleshed  fruit.  Cherries  touched  his  ears 
and  his  neck  as  he  stretched  forward,  their  chill  finger-tips 
sending  a  flash  down  his  blood.  All  shades  of  red,  from  a 
golden  vermilion  to  a  rich  crimson,  glowed  and  met  his 
eyes  under  a  darkness  of  leaves. 

The  sun,  going  down,  suddenly  caught  the  broken  clouds. 
Immense  piles  of  gold  flared  out  in  the  southeast,  heaped  in 
soft,  glowing  yellow  right  up  the  sky.  The  world,  till  now 
dusk  and  grey,  reflected  the  gold  glow,  astonished.  Every- 
where the  trees,  and  the  grass,  and  the  far-off  water,  seemed 
roused  from  the  twilight  and  shining. 

Miriam  came  out  wondering. 

"Oh!"  Paul  heard  her  mellow  voice  call,  "isn't  it  wonder- 
ful?" 

He  looked  down.  There  v/as  a  faint  gold  glimmer  on  her 
face,  that  looked  very  soft,  turned  up  to  him. 
"How  high  you  are!"  she  said. 

Beside  her,  on  the  rhubarb  leaves,  were  four  dead  birds, 
thieves  that  had  been  shot.  Paul  saw  some  cherry-stones 
hanging  quite  bleached,  like  skeletons,  picked  clear  of  flesh. 
He  looked  down  again  to  Miriam. 

"Clouds  are  on  fire,"  he  said. 

"Beautiful!"  she  cried. 

She  seemed  so  small,  so  soft,  so  tender,  down  there.  He 
threw  a  handful  of  cherries  at  her.  She  was  startled  and 
frightened.  He  laughed  with  a  low,  chuckling  sound,  and 
pelted  her.  She  ran  for  shelter,  picking  up  some  cherries. 
Two  fine  red  pairs  she  hung  over  her  ears;  then  she  looked 
up  again. 


336  SONS  AND  LOVERS  . 

"Haven't  you  got  enough?"  she  asked. 
"Nearly.  It  is  like  being  on  a  ship  up  here." 
"And  how  long  will  you  stay?" 
"While  the  sunset  lasts." 

She  went  to  the  fence  and  sat  there,  watching  the  gold 
clouds  fall  to  pieces,  and  go  in  immense,  rose-coloured  ruin 
towards  the  darkness.  Gold  flamed  to  scarlet,  like  pain  in  its 
intense  brightness.  Then  the  scarlet  sank  to  rose,  and  rose 
to  crimson,  and  quickly  the  passion  went  out  of  the  sky.  All 
:he  world  was  dark  grey.  Paul  scrambled  quickly  down  with 
his  basket,  tearing  his  shirt-sleeve  as  he  did  so. 

"They  are  lovely,"  said  Miriam,  fingering  the  cherries. 

"Fve  torn  my  sleeve,"  he  answered. 

She  took  the  three-cornered  rip,  saying: 

"I  shall  have  to  mend  it."  It  was  near  the  shoulder.  She 
put  her  fingers  through  the  tear.  "How  warm!"  she  said. 

He  laughed.  There  was  a  new,  strange  note  in  his  voice, 
one  that  made  her  pant. 

"Shall  we  stay  out?"  he  said. 

"Won't  it  rain?"  she  asked. 

"No,  let  us  walk  a  little  way." 

They  went  down  the  fields  and  into  the  thick  plantation 
of  fir-trees  and  pines. 

"Shall  we  go  in  among  the  trees?"  he  asked. 

"Do  you  want  to?" 

"Yes." 

It  was  very  dark  among  the  firs,  and  the  sharp  spines 
pricked  her  face.  She  was  afraid.  Paul  was  silent  and  strange. 

"I  like  the  darkness,"  he  said.  "I  wish  it  were  thicker- 
good,  thick  darkness." 

He  seemed  to  be  almost  unaware  of  her  as  a  person:  she 
was  only  to  him  then  a  woman.  She  was  afraid. 

He  stood  against  a  pine-tree  trunk  and  took  her  in  his 
arms.  She  relinquished  herself  to  him,  but  it  was  a  sacrifice 
in  which  she  felt  something  of  horror.  This  thick-voiced, 
oblivious  man  was  a  stranger  to  her. 

Later  it  began  to  rain.  The  pine-trees  smelled  very  strong. 


\ 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  337 

Paul  lay  with  his  head  on  the  ground,  on  the  dead  pine- 
needles,  listening  to  the  sharp  hiss  of  the  rain— a  steady,  keen 
noise.  His  heart  was  down,  very  heavy.  Now  he  realized  that 
she  had  not  been  with  him  all  the  time,  that  her  soul  had 
stood  apart,  in  a  sort  of  horror.  He  was  physically  at  rest, 
but  no  more.  Very  dreary  at  heart,  very  sad,  and  very  tender, 
his  fingers  wandered  over  her  face  pitifully.  Now  again  she 
loved  him  deeply.  He  was  tender  and  beautiful. 

"The  rain!"  he  said. 

"Yes— is  it  coming  on  you?" 

She  put  her  hands  over  him,  on  his  hair,  on  his  shoulders, 
to  feel  if  the  raindrops  fell  on  him.  She  loved  him  dearly. 
He,  as  he  lay  with  his  face  on  the  dead  pine-leaves,  felt  ex- 
traordinarily quiet.  He  did  not  mind  if  the  raindrops  came 
on  him:  he  would  have  lain  and  got  wet  through:  he  felt 
as  if  nothing  mattered,  as  if  his  living  were  smeared  away 
into  the  beyond,  near  and  quite  lovable.  This  strange,  gentle 
reaching-out  to  death  was  new  to  him. 

"We  must  go,"  said  Miriam. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  but  did  not  move. 

To  him  now,  life  seemed  a  shadow,  day  a  white  shadow; 
night,  and  death,  and  stillness,  and  inaction,  this  seemed 
like  being.  To  be  alive,  to  be  urgent  and  insistent— that  was 
not-to-be.  The  highest  of  all  was  to  melt  out  into  the  dark- 
ness and  sway  there,  identified  with  the  great  Being. 

"The  rain  is  coming  in  on  us,"  said  Miriam. 

He  rose,  and  assisted  her. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  he  said. 

"What?" 

"To  have  to  go.  I  feel  so  still." 
"Still!"  she  repeated. 

"Stiller  than  I  have  ever  been  in  my  life." 

He  was  walking  with  his  hand  in  hers.  She  pressed  his 
fingers,  feeling  a  slight  fear.  Now  he  seemed  beyond  her; 
she  had  a  fear  lest  she  should  lose  him. 

"The  fir-trees  are  like  presences  on  the  darkness:  each  one 
only  a  presence." 


338  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

She  was  afraid,  and  said  nothing. 

"A  sort  of  hush:  the  whole  night  wondering  and  asleep: 
I  suppose  that's  what  we  do  in  death— sleep  in  wonder." 

She  had  been  afraid  before  of  the  brute  in  him:  now  of  the 
mystic.  She  trod  beside  him  in  silence.  The  rain  fell  with  a 
heavy  "Hush!"  on  the  trees.  At  last  they  gained  the  cart- 
shed. 

"Let  us  stay  here  awhile,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  sound  of  rain  everywhere,  smothering  every- 
thing. 

"I  feel  so  strange  and  still,"  he  said;  "along  with  every- 
thing." 

"Ay,"  she  answered  patiently. 

He  seemed  again  unaware  of  her,  though  he  held  her 
hand  close. 

"To  be  rid  of  our  individuality,  which  is  our  will,  which 
is  our  effort— to  live  effortless,  a  kind  of  conscious  sleep- 
that  is  very  beautiful,  I  think;  that  is  our  after-life— our  im- 
mortality." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes— and  very  beautiful  to  have." 
"You  don't  usually  say  that." 
"No." 

In  a  while  they  went  indoors.  Everybody  looked  at  them 
curiously.  He  still  kept  the  quiet,  heavy  look  in  his  eyes,  the 
stillness  in  his  voice.  Instinctively,  they  all  left  him  alone. 

About  this  time  Miriam's  grandmother,  who  lived  in  a 
tiny  cottage  in  Woodlinton,  fell  ill,  and  the  girl  was  sent  to 
keep  house.  It  was  a  beautiful  little  place.  The  cottage  had 
a  big  garden  in  front,  with  red  brick  walls,  against  which 
the  plum-trees  were  nailed.  At  the  back  another  garden  was 
separated  from  the  fields  by  a  tall  old  hedge.  It  was  very 
pretty.  Miriam  had  not  much  to  do,  so  she  found  time  for 
her  beloved  reading,  and  for  writing  little  introspective  pieces 
which  interested  her. 

At  the  holiday-time  her  grandmother,  being  better,  was 
driven  to  Derby  to  stay  with  her  daughter  for  a  day  or  two. 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  339 

She  was  a  crotchety  old  lady,  and  might  return  the  second 
day  or  the  third;  so  Miriam  stayed  alone  in  the  cottage,  which 
also  pleased  her. 

Paul  used  often  to  cycle  over,  and  they  had  as  a  rule 
peaceful  and  happy  times.  He  did  not  embarrass  her  much; 
but  then  on  the  Monday  of  the  holiday  he  was  to  spend  a 
whole  day  with  her. 

It  was  perfect  weather.  He  left  his  mother,  telling  her 
where  he  was  going.  She  would  be  alone  all  the  day.  It  cast 
a  shadow  over  him;  but  he  had  three  days  that  were  all  his 
own,  when  he  was  going  to  do  as  he  liked.  It  was  sweet  to 
rush  through  the  morning  lanes  on  his  bicycle. 

He  got  to  the  cottage  at  about  eleven  o'clock.  Miriam 
was  busy  preparing  dinner.  She  looked  so  perfectly  in  keep- 
ing with  the  little  kitchen,  ruddy  and  busy.  He  kissed  he! 
and  sat  down  to  watch.  The  room  was  small  and  cosy.  The 
sofa  was  covered  all  over  with  a  sort  of  linen  in  squares  of 
red  and  pale  blue,  old,  much  washed,  but  pretty.  There  was 
a  stuffed  owl  in  a  case  over  a  corner  cupboard.  The  sunlight 
came  through  the  leaves  of  the  scented  geraniums  in  the 
window.  She  was  cooking  a  chicken  in  his  honour.  It  was 
their  cottage  for  the  day,  and  they  were  man  and  wife.  He 
beat  the  eggs  for  her  and  peeled  the  potatoes.  He  thought 
she  gave  a  feeling  of  home  almost  like  his  mother;  and  no  one 
could  look  more  beautiful,  with  her  tumbled  curls,  when 
she  was  flushed  from  the  fire. 

The  dinner  was  a  great  success.  Like  a  young  husband, 
he  carved.  They  talked  all  the  time  with  unflagging  zest. 
Then  he  wiped  the  dishes  she  had  washed,  and  they  went  out 
down  the  fields.  There  was  a  bright  little  brook  that  ran 
into  a  bog  at  the  foot  of  a  very  steep  bank.  Here  they  wan- 
dered, picking  still  a  few  marsh  marigolds  and  many  big 
blue  forget-me-nots.  Then  she  sat  on  the  bank  with  her  hands 
full  of  flowers,  mostly  golden  water-blobs.  As  she  put  her 
face  down  into  the  marigolds,  it  was  all  overcast  with  a 
yellow  shine. 

"Your  face  is  K~ight,"  he  said,  "like  a  transfiguration." 


340  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

She  looked  at  him,  questioning.  He  laughed  pleadingly  to 
her,  laying  his  hand  on  hers.  Then  he  kissed  her  fingers,  then 
her  face. 

The  world  was  all  steeped  in  sunshine,  and  quite  still,  yet 
not  asleep,  but  quivering  with  a  kind  of  expectancy. 

"I  have  never  seen  anything  more  beautiful  than  this," 
he  said.  He  held  her  hand  fast  all  the  time. 

"And  the  water  singing  to  itself  as  it  runs— do  you  love 
it?"  She  looked  at  him  full  of  love.  His  eyes  were  very  dark, 
very  bright. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  a  great  day?"  he  asked. 

She  murmured  her  assent.  She  was  happy,  and  he  saw  it. 

"And  our  day— just  between  us,"  he  said. 

They  lingered  a  little  while.  Then  they  stood  up  upon 
the  sweet  thyme,  and  he  looked  down  at  her  simply. 

"Will  you  come?"  he  asked. 

Then  went  back  to  the  house,  hand-in-hand,  in  silence. 
The  chickens  came  scampering  down  the  path  to  her.  He 
locked  the  door,  and  they  had  the  little  house  to  themselves. 

He  never  forgot  seeing  her  as  she  lay  on  the  bed,  when 
he  was  unfastening  his  collar.  First  he  saw  only  her  beauty, 
and  was  blind  with  it.  She  had  the  most  beautiful  body  he 
had  ever  imagined.  He  stood  unable  to  move  or  speak,  look- 
ing at  her,  his  face  half  smiling  with  wonder.  And  then  he 
wanted  her,  but  as  he  went  forward  to  her,  her  hands  lifted 
in  a  little  pleading  movement,  and  he  looked  at  her  face,  and 
stopped.  Her  big  brown  eyes  were  watching  him,  still  and 
resigned  and  loving;  she  lay  as  if  she  had  given  herself  up  to 
sacrifice:  there  was  her  body  for  him;  but  the  look  at  the 
back  of  her  eyes,  like  a  creature  awaiting  immolation,  ar- 
rested him,  and  all  his  blood  fell  back. 

"You  are  sure  you  want  me?"  he  asked,  as  if  a  cold  shadow 
had  come  over  him. 

"Yes,  quite  sure." 

She  was  very  quiet,  very  calm.  She  only  realized  that  she 
was  doing  something  for  him.  He  could  hardly  bear  it.  She 
lay  to  be  sacrificed  for  him  because  she  loved  him  so  much. 
And  he  had  to  sacrifice  her.  For  a  second,  he  wished  he  were 


I 

THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  34 1 

sexless  or  dead.  Then  she  shut  his  eyes  again  to  her,  and  his 
blood  beat  back  again. 

And  afterwards  he  loved  her—loved  her  to  the  last  fibre 
of  his  being.  He  loved  her.  But  he  wanted,  somehow,  to  cryfc 
There  was  something  he  could  not  bear  for  her  sake.  He 
stayed  with  her  till  quite  late  at  night.  As  he  rode  home  he 
felt  that  he  was  finally  initiated.  He  was  a  youth  no  longer. 
But  why  had  he  the  dull  pain  in  his  soul?  Why  did  the 
thought  of  death,  the  afterlife,  seem  so  sweet  and  consoling? 

He  spent  the  week  with  Miriam,  and  wore  her  out  with 
his  passion  before  it  was  gone.  He  had  always,  almost  wil- 
fully, to  put  her  out  of  count,  and  act  from  the  brute  strength 
of  his  own  feelings.  And  he  could  not  do  it  often,  and  there 
remained  afterwards  always  the  sense  of  failure  and  of  death. 
If  he  were  really  with  her,  he  had  to  put  aside  himself  and 
his  desire.  If  he  would  have  her,  he  had  to  put  her  aside. 

"When  I  come  to  you,"  he  asked  her,  his  eyes  dark  with 
pain  and  shame,  "you  don't  really  want  me,  do  you?" 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  replied  quickly. 

He  looked  at  her. 

"Nay,"  he  said. 

She  began  to  tremble. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  taking  his  face  and  shutting  it  out 
against  her  shoulder— "you  see— as  we  are— how  can  I  get 
used  to  you?  It  would  come  all  right  if  we  were  married." 

He  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"You  mean,  now,  it  is  always  too  much  shock?" 

"Yes-and— " 

"You  are  always  clenched  against  me." 

She  was  trembling  with  agitation. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  used  to  the  thought  - — " 

"You  are  lately,"  he  said. 

"But  all  my  life.  Mother  said  to  me,  'There  is  one  thing 
in  marriage  that  is  always  dreadful,  but  you  have  to  bear  it.' 
And  I  believed  it." 

"And  still  believe,"  he  said. 

"No!"  she  cried  hastily.  "I  believe,  as  you  do,  that  loving, 
even  in  that  way,  is  the  high-water  mark  of  living." 


342  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"That  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  you  never  want  it." 

"No,"  she  said,  taking  his  head  in  her  arms  and  rocking 
in  despair.  "Don't  say  so!  You  don't  understand."  She  rocked 
with  pain.  "Don't  I  want  your  children?" 

"But  not  me." 

"How  can  you  say  so?  But  we  must  be  married  to  have 

,  children  " 

"Shall  we  be  married,  then?  /  want  you  to  have  my  chil- 
dren." 

He  kissed  her  hand  reverently.  She  pondered  sadly,  watch- 
ing him. 

"We  are  too  young,"  she  said  at  length. 
"Twenty-four  and  twenty-three — " 
.  "Not  yet,"  she  pleaded,  as  she  rocked  herself  in  distress. 
"When  you  will,"  he  said. 

She  bowed  her  head  gravely.  The  tone  of  hopelessness  in 
which  he  said  these  things  grieved  her  deeply.  It  had  always 
been  a  failure  between  them.  Tacitly,  she  acquiesced  in  what 
he  felt. 

And  after  a  week  of  love  he  said  to  his  mother  suddenly 
one  Sunday  night,  just  as  they  were  going  to  bed: 
"I  shan't  go  so  much  to  Miriam's,  mother." 
She  was  surprised,  but  she  would  not  ask  him  anything. 
"You  please  yourself,"  she  said. 

So  he  went  to  bed.  Bat  there  was  a  new  quietness  about 
him  which  she  had  wondered  at.  She  almost  guessed.  She 
would  leave  him  alone,  however.  Precipitation  might  spoil 
things.  She  watched  him  in  his  loneliness,  wondering  where 
he  would  end.  He  was  sick,  and  much  too  quiet  for  him. 
There  was  a  perpetual  little  knitting  of  his  brows,  such  as 
she  had  seen  when  he  was  a  small  baby,  and  which  had  been 
gone  for  many  years.  Now  it  was  the  same  again.  And  she 
could  do  nothing  for  him.  He  had  to  go  on  alone,  make  his 
own  way. 

He  continued  faithful  to  Miriam.  For  one  day  he  had 
loved  her  utterly.  But  it  never  came  again.  The  sense  of 
failure  grew  stronger.  At  first  it  was  only  a  sadness.  Then 
he  began  to  feel  he  could  not  go  on.  He  wanted  to  run,  to 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  343 

go  abroad,  anything.  Gradually  he  ceased  to  ask  her  to  have 
him.  Instead  of  drawing  them  together,  it  put  them  apart. 
And  then  he  realized,  consciously,  that  it  was  no  good. 
It  was  useless  trying:  it  would  never  be  a  success  between 
them. 

For  some  months  he  had  seen  very  little  of  Clara.  They 
had  occasionally  walked  out  for  half  an  hour  at  dinner-time. 
But  he  always  reserved  himself  for  Miriam.  With  Clara, 
however,  his  brow  cleared,  and  he  was  gay  again.  She  treated 
him  indulgently,  as  if  he  were  a  child.  He  thought  he  did 
not  mind.  But  deep  below  the  surface  it  piqued  him. 

Sometimes  Miriam  said: 

"What  about  Clara?  I  hear  nothing  of  her  lately." 
"I  walked  with  her  about  twenty  minutes  yesterday, *  he 
replied. 

"And  'what  did  she  talk  about?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I  did  all  the  jawing— I  usually  do. 
I  think  I  was  telling  her  about  the  strike,  and  how  the  women 
took  it." 

"Yes." 

So  he  gave  the  account  of  himself. 

But  insidiously,  without  his  knowing  it,  the  warmth  he 
felt  for  Clara  drew  him  away  from  Miriam,  for  whom  he  felt 
responsible,  and  to  whom  he  felt  he  belonged.  He  thought 
he  was  being  quite  faithful  to  her.  It  is  not  easy  to  estimate 
exactly  the  strength  and  warmth  of  one's  feelings  for  a 
woman  till  they  have  run  away  with  one. 

He  began  to  give  more  time  to  his  men  friends.  There 
was  Jessop,  at  the  Art  School;  Swain,  who  was  chemistry 
demonstrator  at  the  University;  Newton,  who  was  a  teacher; 
besides  Edgar  and  Miriam's  younger  brothers.  Pleading 
work,  he  sketched  and  studied  with  Jessop.  He  called  in  the 
University  for  Swain,  and  the  two  went  "down  town"  to- 
gether. Having  come  home  in  the  train  with  Newton,  he 
called  and  had  a  game  of  billiards  with  him  in  the  Moon  and 
Stars.  If  he  gave  to  Miriam  vhe  excuse  of  his  men  friends, 
he  felt  quite  justified.  His  mother  began  to  be  relieved.  He 
always  told  her  where  he  had  been. 


344  SONS  AND  lovers 

During  the  summer  Clara  wore  sometimes  a  dress  of 
soft  cotton  stuff  with  loose  sleeves.  When  she  lifted  her 
hands,  her  sleeves  fell  back,  and  her  beautiful  strong  arms 
shone  out. 

"Half  a  minute,"  he  cried.  "Hold  your  arm  still." 

He  made  sketches  of  her  hand  and  arm,  and  the  drawings 
contained  some  of  the  fascination  the  real  thing  had  for  him. 
Miriam,  who  always  went  scrupulously  through  his  books 
and  papers,  saw  the  drawings. 

"I  think  Clara  has  such  beautiful  arms,"  he  said. 

"Yes!  When  did  you  draw  them?" 

"On  Tuesday,  in  the  work-room.  You  know,  I've  got  a 
corner  where  I  can  work.  Often  I  can  do  every  single  thing 
they  need  in  the  department,  before  dinner.  Then  I  work 
for  myself  in  the  afternoon,  and  just  see  to  things  at  night." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  turning  the  leaves  of  his  sketch-bcfok. 

Frequently  he  hated  Miriam.  He  hated  her  as  she  bent 
forward  and  pored  over  his  things.  He  hated  her  way  of 
patiently  casting  him  up,  as  if  he  were  an  endless  psycholog- 
ical account.  When  he  was  with  her,  he  hated  her  for  having 
got  him,  and  yet  not  got  him,  and  he  tortured  her.  She  took 
all  and  gave  nothing,  he  said.  At  least,  she  gave  no  living 
warmth.  She  was  never  alive,  and  giving  off  life.  Looking 
for  her  was  like  looking  for  something  which  did  not  exist. 
She  was  only  his  conscience,  not  his  mate.  He  hated  her 
violently,  and  was  more  cruel  to  her.  They  dragged  on  till 
the  next  summer.  He  saw  more  and  more  of  Clara. 

At  last  he  spoke.  He  had  been  sitting  working  at  home  one 
evening.  There  was  between  him  and  his  mother  a  peculiar 
condition  of  people  frankly  finding  fault  with  each  other. 
Mrs.  Morel  was  strong  on  her  feet  again.  He  was  not  going 
to  stick  to  Miriam.  Very  well;  then  she  would  stand  aloof 
till  he  said  something.  It  had  been  coming  a  long  time,  this 
bursting  of  the  storm  in  him,  when  he  would  come  back  to 
her.  This  evening  there  was  between  them  a  peculiar  con- 
dition of  suspense.  He  worked  feverishly  and  mechanically, 
so  that  he  could  escape  from  himself.  It  grew  late.  Through 
the  open  door,  stealthily,  came  the  scent  of  madonna  lilies, 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  345 

almost  as  if  it  were  prowling  abroad.  Suddenly  he  got  up  anc 
went  out  of  doors. 

The  beauty  of  the  night  made  him  want  to  shout.  A  half- 
moon,  dusky  gold,  was  sinking  behind  the  black  sycamore 
at  the  end  of  the  garden,  making  the  sky  dull  purple  with  its 
glow.  Nearer,  a  dim  white  fence  of  lilies  went  across  the 
garden,  and  the  air  all  round  seemed  to  stir  with  scent,  as  if  it 
were  alive.  He  went  across  the  bed  of  pinks,  whose  keen 
perfume  came  sharply  across  the  rocking,  heavy  scent  of 
the  lilies,  and  stood  alongside  the  white  barrier  of  flowers, 
They  flagged  all  loose,  as  if  they  were  panting.  The  scent 
made  him  drunk.  He  went  down  to  the  field  to  watch  the 
moon  sink  under. 

A  corncrake  in  the  hay-close  called  insistently.  The  moon 
slid  quite  quickly  downwards,  growing  more  flushed.  Behind 
him  the  great  flowers  leaned  as  if  they  were  calling.  And 
then,  like  a  shock,  he  caught  another  perfume,  something 
raw  and  coarse.  Hunting  round,  he  found  the  purple  iris, 
touched  their  fleshy  throats  and  their  dark,  grasping  hands. 
At  any  rate,  he  had  found  something.  They  stood  stiff  in  the 
darkness.  Their  scent  was  brutal.  The  moon  was  melting 
down  upon  the  crest  of  the  hill.  It  was  gone;  all  was  dark. 
The  corncrake  called  still. 

Breaking  off  a  pink,  he  suddenly  went  indoors. 

"Come,  my  boy,"  said  his  mother.  "I'm  sure  it's  time  yon 
went  to  bed." 

He  stood  with  the  pink  against  his  lips. 

"I  shall  break  off  with  Miriam,  mother,"  he  answered 
calmly. 

She  looked  up  at  him  over  her  spectacles.  He  was  star- 
ing back  at  her,  unswerving.  She  met  his  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  took  off  her  glasses.  He  was  white.  The  male 
was  up  in  him,  dominant.  She  did  not  want  to  see  him  too 
clearly. 

"But  I  thought—"  she  began. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "I  don't  love  her.  I  don't  want  to 
marry  her— so  I  shall  have  done." 

"But,"  exclaimed  his  mother,  amazed,  "I  thought  lately 


346  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

you  had  made  up  your  mind  to  have  her,  and  so  I  said 
nothing." 

UI  had— I  wanted  to— but  now  I  don't  want.  It's  no  good. 
[  shall  break  off  on  Sunday.  I  ought  to,  oughtnft  I?" 

"You  know  best.  You  know  I  said  so  long  ago." 

"I  can't  help  that  now.  I  shall  break  off  on  Sunday." 

"Well,"  said  his  mother,  "I  think  it  will  be  best.  But  lately 
I  decided  you  had  made  up  your  mind  to  have  her,  so  I  said 
nothing,  and  should  have  said  nothing.  But  I  say  as  I  have 
always  said,  I  dortt  think  she  is  suited  to  you." 

"On  Sunday  I  break  off,"  he  said,  smelling  the  pink.  He 
put  the  flower  in  his  mouth.  Unthinking,  he  bared  his  teeth, 
closed  them  on  the  blossom  slowly,  and  had  a  mouthful  of 
petals.  These  he  spat  into  the  fire,  kissed  his  mother,  and 
went  to  bed. 

On  Sunday  he  went  up  to  the  farm  in  the  early  afternoon. 
He  had  written  Miriam  that  they  would  walk  over  the  fields 
to  Hucknall.  His  mother  was  very  tender  with  him.  He  said 
nothing.  But  she  saw  the  effort  it  was  costing.  The  peculiar 
set  look  on  his  face  stilled  her. 

"Never  mind,  my  son,"  she  said.  "You  will  be  so  much 
better  when  it  is  all  over." 

Paul  glanced  swiftly  at  his  mother  in  surprise  and  resent- 
ment. He  did  not  want  sympathy. 

Miriam  met  him  at  the  lane-end.  She  was  wearing  a  new 
dress  of  figured  muslin  that  had  short  sleeves.  Those  short 
sleeves,  and  Miriam's  brown-skinned  arms  beneath  them— 
such  pitiful,  resigned  arms— gave  him  so  much  pain  that  they 
helped  to  make  him  cruel.  She  had  made  herself  look 
so  beautiful  and  fresh  for  him.  She  seemed  to  blossom  for 
him  alone.  Every  time  he  looked  at  her— a  mature  young 
woman  now,  and  beautiful  in  her  new  dress— it  hurt  so 
much  that  his  heart  seemed  almost  to  be  bursting  with  the 
restraint  he  put  on  it.  But  he  had  decided,  and  it  was 
irrevocable. 

On  the  hills  they  sat  down,  and  he  lay  with  his  head  in 
her  lap,  whilst  she  fingered  his  hair.  She  knew  that  "he  was 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  347 

not  there,"  as  she  put  it.  Often,  when  she  had  him  with  her, 
she  looked  for  him,  and  could  not  find  him.  But  this  after- 
noon she  was  not  prepared. 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  he  told  her.  They  were 
sitting  on  the  bank  of  a  stream,  where  the  lip  of  turf  hung 
over  a  hollow  bank  of  yellow  earth,  and  he  was  hacking 
away  with  a  stick,  as  he  did  when  he  was  perturbed  and 
cruel. 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  he  said,  "we  ought  to  break  off." 
"Why?"  she  cried  in  surprise. 
"Because  it's  no  good  going  on." 
"Why  is  it  no  good?" 

"It  isn't.  I  don't  want  to  marry.  I  don't  want  ever  to  marry, 
And  if  we're  not  going  to  marry,  it's  no  good  going  on." 
"But  why  do  you  say  this  now?" 
"Because  I've  made  up  my  mind." 

"And  what  about  these  last  months,  and  the  things  you 
told  me  then?" 

"I  can't  help  it;  I  don't  want  to  go  on." 

"You  don't  want  any  more  of  me?" 

"I  want  us  to  break  off—you  be  free  of  me,  I  free  of  you." 

"And  what  about  these  last  months?" 

"I  don't  know.  I've  not  told  you  anything  but  what  I 
thought  was  true." 

"Then  why  are  you  different  now?" 

"I'm  not— I'm  the  same— only  I  know  it's  no  good  going 
on. 

"You  haven't  told  me  why  it's  no  good." 
"Because  I  don't  want  to  go  on— and  I  don't  want  to 
marry." 

"How  many  times  have  you  offered  to  marry  me,  and  I 
wouldn't?" 

"I  know;  but  I  want  us  to  break  off." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  while  he  dug 
viciously  at  the  earth.  She  bent  her  head,  pondering.  He 
was  an  unreasonable  child.  He  was  like  an  infant  which, 
when  it  has  drunk  its  fill,  throws  away  and  smashes  the  cup. 


■348  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

She  looked  at  him,  feeling  she  could  get  hold  of  him  and 
wring  some  consistency  out  of  him.  But  she  was  helpless. 
Then  she  cried: 

"I  have  said  you  were  only  fourteen— you  are  only  four!" 

He  still  dug  at  the  earth  viciously.  He  heard. 

"You  are  a  child  of  four,"  she  repeated  in  her  anger. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  said  in  his  heart:  "All  right;  if  I'm 
£  child  of  four,  what  do  you  want  me  for?  7  don't  want  an- 
other mother."  But  he  said  nothing  to  her,  and  there  was 
silence. 

"And  have  you  told  your  people?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  told  my  mother." 

There  was  another  long  interval  of  silence. 

"Then  what  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  I  want  us  to  separate.  We  have  lived  on  each  other 
all  these  years;  now  let  us  stop.  I  will  go  my  own  way  with- 
out you,  and  you  will  go  your  way  without  me.  You  will 
have  an  independent  life  of  your  own  then." 

There  was  in  it  some  truth  that,  in  spite  of  her  bitterness, 
she  could  not  help  registering.  She  knew  she  felt  in  a  sort  of 
bondage  to  him,  which  she  hated  because  she  could  not 
control  it.  She  had  hated  her  love  for  him  from  the  moment 
it  grew  too  strong  for  her.  And,  deep  down,  she  had  hated 
him  because  she  loved  him  and  he  dominated  her.  She  had 
resisted  his  domination.  She  had  fought  to  keep  herself  free 
of  him  in  the  last  issue.  And  she  was  free  of  him,  even  more 
than  he  of  her. 

"And,"  he  continued,  "we  shall  always  be  more  or  less 
each  other's  work.  You  have  done  a  lot  for  me,  I  for  you. 
Now  let  us  start  and  live  by  ourselves." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing— only  be  free,"  he  answered. 

She,  however,  knew  in  her  heart  that  Clara's  influence 
was  over  him  to  liberate  him.  But  she  said  nothing. 

"And  what  have  I  to  tell  my  mother?"  she  asked. 

"I  told  my  mother,"  he  answered,  "that  I  was  breaking  off 
-clean  and  altogether." 

"I  shall  not  tell  them  at  home,"  she  said. 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  349 

Frowning,  "You  please  yourself,"  he  said. 

He  knew  he  had  landed  her  in  a  nasty  hole,  and  was  leav- 
ing her  in  the  lurch.  It  angered  him. 

"Tell  them  you  wouldn't  and  won't  marry  me,  and  have 
broken  off,"  he  said.  "It's  true  enough." 

She  bit  her  finger  moodily.  She  thought  over  their  whole 
affair.  She  had  known  it  would  come  to  this;  she  had  seen  it 
all  along.  It  chimed  with  her  bitter  expectation. 

"Always— it  has  always  been  so!"  she  cried.  "It  has  been 
one  long  battle  between  us— you  fighting  away  from  me." 

It  came  from  her  unawares,  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  The 
man's  heart  stood  still.  Was  this  how  she  saw  it? 

"But  we've  had  some  perfect  hours,  some  perfect  times, 
when  we  were  together!"  he  pleaded. 

"Never!"  she  cried;  "never!  It  has  always  been  you  fight- 
ing me  off." 

"Not  always— not  at  first!"  he  pleaded. 

"Always,  from  the  very  beginning— always  the  same!" 

She  had  finished,  but  she  had  done  enough.  He  sat  aghast. 
He  had  wanted  to  say,  "It  has  been  good,  but  it  is  at  an  end." 
And  she— she  whose  love  he  had  believed  in  when  he  had 
despised  himself— denied  that  their  love  had  ever  been  love. 
"He  had  always  fought  away  from  her?"  Then  it  had  been 
monstrous.  There  had  never  been  anything  really  between 
them;  all  the  time  he  had  been  imagining  something  where 
there  was  nothing.  And  she  had  known.  She  had  known  so 
much,  and  had  told  him  so  little.  She  had  known  all  the 
time.  All  the  time  this  was  at  the  bottom  of  her! 

He  sat  silent  in  bitterness.  At  last  the  whole  affair  ap- 
peared in  a  cynical  aspect  to  him.  She  had  really  played  with 
him,  not  he  with  her.  She  had  hidden  all  her  condemnation 
from  him,  had  flattered  him,  and  despised  him.  She  despised 
him  now.  He  grew  intellectual  and  cruel. 

"You  ought  to  marry  a  man  who  worships  you,"  he  said; 
"then  you  could  do  as  you  liked  with  him.  Plenty  of  men 
will  worship  you,  if  you  get  on  the  private  side  of  their 
natures.  You  ought  to  marry  one  such.  They  would  never 
fight  you  off." 


350  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Thank  you!"  she  said.  "But  don't  advise  me  to  marry 
someone  else  any  more.  You've  done  it  before." 

"Very  well,"  he  said;  "I  will  say  no  more." 

He  sat  still,  feeling  as  if  he  had  had  a  blow,  instead  of 
giving  one.  Their  eight  years  of  friendship  and  love,  the 
eight  years  of  his  life,  were  nullified. 

"When  did  you  think  of  this?"  she  asked. 

"I  thought  definitely  on  Thursday  night." 

"I  knew  it  was  coming,"  she  said. 

That  pleased  him  bitterly.  "Oh,  very  well!  If  she  knew, 
then  it  doesn't  come  as  a  surprise  to  her,"  he  thought. 
"And  have  you  said  anything  to  Clara?"  she  asked. 
"No;  but  I  shail  tell  her  now." 
There  was  a  silence. 

"Do  you  remember  the  things  you  said  this  time  last  year, 
in  my  grandmother's  house— nay,  last  month  even?" 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "I  do!  And  I  meant  them!  I  can't  help  that 
it's  failed." 

"It  has  failed  because  you  want  something  else." 
"It  would  have  failed  whether  or  not.  Yoa  never  believed 
in  me." 

She  laughed  strangely. 

He  sat  in  silence.  He  was  full  of  a  feeling  that  she  had 
deceived  him.  She  had  despised  him  when  he  thought  she 
worshipped  him.  She  had  let  him  say  wrong  things,  and  had 
not  contradicted  him.  She  had  let  him  fight  alone.  But  it 
stuck  in  his  throat  that  she  had  despised  him  whilst  he 
thought  she  worshipped  him.  She  should  have  told  him 
when  she  found  fault  with  him.  She  had  not  played  fair.  He 
hated  her.  All  these  years  she  had  treated  him  as  if  he  were 
a  hero,  and  thought  of  him  secretly  as  an  infant,  a  foolish 
child.  Then  why  had  she  left  the  foolish  child  to  his  folly? 
His  heart  was  hard  against  her. 

She  sat  full  of  bitterness.  She  had  known— oh,  well  she 
had  known!  All  the  time  he  was  away  from  her  she  had 
summed  him  up,  seen  his  littleness,  his  meanness,  and  his 
folly.  Even  she  had  guarded  her  soul  against  him.  She  was 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  35  I 

not  overthrown,  nor  prostrated,  not  even  much  hurt.  She 
had  known.  Only  why,  as  he  sat  there,  had  he  still  this 
strange  dominance  over  her?  His  very  movements  fascinated 
her  as  if  she  were  hypnotized  by  him.  Yet  he  was  despicable, 
false,  inconsistent,  and  mean.  Why  this  bondage  for  her? 
Why  was  it  the  movement  of  his  arm  stirred  her  as  nothing 
else  in  the  world  could?  Why  was  she  fastened  to  him? 
Why,  even  now,  if  he  looked  at  her  and  commanded  her, 
would  she  have  to  obey?  She  would  obey  him  in  his  trifling 
commands.  But  once  he  was  obeyed,  then  she  had  him  in  her 
power,  she  knew,  to  lead  him  where  she  would.  She  was  sure 
of  herself.  Only,  this  new  influence!  Ah,  he  was  not  a  man! 
He  was  a  baby  that  cries  for  the  newest  toy.  And  all  the 
attachment  of  his  soul  would  not  keep  him.  Very  well,  he 
would  have  to  go.  But  he  would  come  back  when  he  had 
tired  of  his  new  sensation. 

He  hacked  at  the  earth  till  she  was  fretted  to  death.  She 
rose.  He  sat  flinging  lumps  of  earth  in  the  stream. 

"We  will  go  and  have  tea  here?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

They  chattered  over  irrelevant  subjects  during  tea.  He 
held  forth  on  the  love  of  ornament— the  cottage  parlour 
moved  him  thereto— and  its  connexion  with  aesthetics.  She 
was  cold  and  quiet.  As  they  walked  home,  she  asked: 

"And  we  shall  not  see  each  other?" 

"No— or  rarely,"  he  answered. 

"Nor  write?"  she  asked,  almost  sarcastically. 

"As  you  will,"  he  answered.  "We're  not  strangers— never 
should  be,  whatever  happened.  I  will  write  to  you  now  and 
again.  You  please  yourself." 

"I  see!"  she  answered  cuttingly. 

But  he  was  at  that  stage  at  which  nothing  else  hurts.  He 
had  made  a  great  cleavage  in  his  life.  He  had  had  a  great 
shock  when  she  told  him  their  love  had  been  always  a  con- 
flict. Nothing  more  mattered.  If  it  never  had  been  muchu 
there  was  no  need  to  make  a  fuss  that  it  was  ended. 

He  left  her  at  the  lane-end.  As  she  went  home,  solitary,  in 


352  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

her  new  frock,  having  her  people  to  face  at  the  other  end, 
he  stood  still  with  shame  and  pain  in  the  highroad,'  thinking 
of  the  suffering  he  caused  her. 

In  a  reaction  towards  restoring  his  self-esteem,  he  went 
into  the  Willow  Tree  for  a  drink.  There  were  four  girls  who 
had  been  out  for  the  day,  drinking  a  modest  glass  of  port. 
They  had  some  chocolates  on  the  table.  Paul  sat  near  with 
his  whisky.  He  noticed  the  girls  whispering  and  nudging. 
Presently  one,  a  bonny  dark  hussy,  leaned  to  him  and  said: 

"Have  a  chocolate?" 

The  others  laughed  loudly  at  her  impudence. 
"All  right,"  said  Paul.  "Give  me  a  hard  one— nut.  I  don't 
like  creams." 

"Here  you  are,  then,"  said  the  girl;  "here's  an  almond  for 
you." 

She  held  the  sweet  between  her  fingers.  He  opened  his 
mouth.  She  popped  it  in,  and  blushed. 
"You  are  nice!"  he  said. 

"Well,"  she  answered,  "we  thought  you  looked  overcast, 
and  they  dared  me  offer  you  a  chocolate." 

"I  don't  mind  if  I  have  another— another  sort,"  he  said. 

And  presently  they  were  all  laughing  together 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  he  got  home,  falling  dark.  He- 
entered  the  house  in  silence.  His  mother,  who  had  been  wait- 
ing, rose  anxiously. 

"I  told  her,"  he  said. 

"I'm  glad,"  replied  the  mother,  with  great  relief. 

He  hung  up  his  cap  wearily. 

"I  said  we'd  have  done  altogether,"  he  said. 

"That's  right,  my  son,"  said  the  mother.  "It's  hard  for  her 
n  >w,  but  best  in  the  long-run.  I  know.  You  weren't  suited 
for  her." 

He  laughed  shakily  as  he  sat  down. 

"I've  had  such  a  lark  with  some  girls  in  a  pub,"  he  said. 

His  mother  looked  at  him.  He  had  forgotten  Miriam  now. 
He  told  her  about  the  girls  in  the  Willow  Tree.  Mrs.  Morel 
looked  at  him.  It  seemed  unreal,  his  gaiety.  At  the  back  of  it 
was  too  much  horror  and  misery. 


THE  TEST  ON  MIRIAM  353 

"Now  have  some  supper,"  she  said  very  gently. 
Afterwards  he  said  wistfully: 

"She  never  thought  she'd  have  me,  mother,  not  from  the 
first,  and  so  she's  not  disappointed." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  his  mother,  "she  doesn't  give  up  hopes 
of  you  yet." 

"No,"  he  said,  "perhaps  not." 

"You'll  find  it's  better  to  have  done,"  she  said. 

"/  don't  know,"  he  said  desperately. 

"Well,  leave  her  alone,"  replied  his  mother. 

So  he  left  her,  and  she  was  alone.  Very  few  people  cared 
for  her,  and  she  for  very  few  people.  She  remained  alone 
with  herself,  waiting. 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

CHAPTER  XII 


PASSION 


HE  WAS  gradually  making  it  possible  to  earn  a  liveli- 
hood by  his  art.  Liberty's  had  taken  several  of  his 
painted  designs  on  various  stuffs,  and  he  could  sell  designs 
for  embroideries,  for  altar-cloths,  and  similar  things,  in  one 
or  two  places.  It  was  not  very  much  he  made  at  present,  but 
he  might  extend  it.  He  also  had  made  friends  with  the  de- 
signer for  a  pottery  firm,  and  was  gaining  some  knowledge 
of  his  new  acquaintance's  art.  The  applied  arts  interested 
him  very  much.  At  the  same  time  he  laboured  slowly  at  his 
pictures.  He  loved  to  paint  large  figures,  full  of  light,  but 
not  merely  made  up  of  lights  and  cast  shadows,  like  the 
impressionists;  rather  definite  figures  that  had  a  certain 
luminous  quality,  like  some  of  Michael  Angelo's  people.  And 
these  he  fitted  into  a  landscape,  in  what  he  thought  true 
proportion.  He  worked  a  great  deal  from  memory,  using 
everybody  he  knew.  He  believed  firmly  in  his  work,  that 
it  was  good  and  valuable.  In  spite  of  fits  of  depression, 
shrinking,  everything,  he  believed  in  his  work. 

He  was  twenty-four  when  he  said  his  first  confident  thing 
to  his  mother. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "I  s'll  make  a  painter  that  thev'll  attend 
to." 

She  sniffed  in  her  quaint  fashion.  It  was  like  a  half-pleased 
shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"Very  well,  my  boy,  we'll  see,"  she  said. 

"You  shall  see,  my  pigeon!  You  see  if  you're  not  swanky 
one  of  these  days!" 

"I'm  quite  content,  my  boy,"  she  smiled. 

"But  you'll  have  to  alter.  Look  at  you  with  Minnie!" 

Minnie  was  the  small  servant,  a  girl  of  fourteen. 

354 


passion  355 

"And  what  about  Minnie?"  asked  Mrs.  Morel,  with 
dignity. 

"I  heard  her  this  morning:  'Eh,  Mrs.  Morel!  I  was  going 
to  do  that,'  when  you  went  out  in  the  rain  for  some  coal," 
he  said.  "That  looks  a  lot  like  your  being  able  to  manage 
servants!" 

"Well,  it  was  only  the  child's  niceness,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

"And  you  apologizing  to  her:  'You  can't  do  two  things 
at  once,  can  you?'  " 

"She  was  busy  washing  up,"  replied  Mrs.  Morel. 

"And  what  did  she  say?  'It  could  easy  have  waited  a  bit. 
Now  look  how  your  feet  paddle!'  " 

"Yes— brazen  young  baggage!"  said  Mrs.  Morel,  smiling. 

He  looked  at  his  mother,  laughing.  She  was  quite  warm 
and  rosy  again  with  love  of  him.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  sun- 
shine were  on  her  for  a  moment.  He  continued  his  work 
gladly.  She  seemed  so  well  when  she  was  happy  that  he  for- 
got her  grey  hair. 

And  that  year  she  went  with  him  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  for  , 
a  holiday.  It  was  too  exciting  for  them  both,  and  too  beauti- 
ful. Mrs.  Morel  was  full  of  joy  and  wonder.  But  he  would 
have  her  walk  with  him  more  than  she  was  able.  She  had  a 
bad  fainting  bout.  So  grey  her  face  was,  so  blue  her  mouth! 
It  was  agony  to  him.  He  felt  as  if  someone  were  pushing  a 
knife  in  his  chest.  Then  she  was  better  again,  and  he  forgot. 
But  the  anxiety  remained  inside  him,  like  a  wound  that  did 
not  close. 

After  leaving  Miriam  he  went  almost  straight  to  Clara. 
On  the  Monday  following  the  day  of  the  rupture  he  went 
down  to  the  work-room.  She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 
They  had  grown  very  intimate  unawares.  She  saw  a  new 
brightness  about  him. 

"Well,  Queen  of  Sheba!"  he  said,  laughing. 

"But  why?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  it  suits  you.  You've  got  a  new  frock  on," 
She  flushed,  asking: 
"And  what  of  it?" 

"Suits  you— awfully!  /  could  design  you  a  dress." 


356  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"How  would  it  be?" 

He  stood  in  front  of  her,  his  eyes  glittering  as  he  ex- 
pounded. He  kept  her  eyes  fixed  with  his.  Then  suddenly 
he  took  hold  of  her.  She  half  started  back.  He  drew  the 
6tuff  of  her  blouse  tighter,  smoothed  it  over  her  breast. 

"More  sol"  he  explained. 

But  they  were  both  of  them  flaming  with  blushes,  and 
immediately  he  ran  away.  He  had  touched  her.  His  whole 
body  wras  quivering  with  the  sensation. 

There  was  already  a  sort  of  secret  understanding  between 
them.  The  next  evening  he  went  into  the  cinematograph 
with  her  for  a  few  minutes  before  train-time.  As  they  sat, 
he  saw  her  hand  lying  near  him.  For  some  moments  he  dared 
not  touch  it.  The  pictures  danced  and  dithered.  Then  he 
took  her  hand  in  his.  It  was  large  and  firm;  it  filled  his  grasp. 
He  held  it  fast.  She  neither  moved  nor  made  any  sign.  When 
they  came  out  his  train  was  due.  He  hesitated. 

"Good-night,"  she  said.  He  darted  away  across  the  road. 

The  next  day  he  came  again,  talking  to  her.  She  was 
rather  superior  with  him. 

"Shall  we  go  a  walk  on  Monday?"  he  asked. 

She  turned  her  face  aside. 

"Shall  you  tell  Miriam?"  she  replied  sarcastically. 
"I  have  broken  off  with  her,"  he  said. 
"When?" 
"Last  Sunday." 
"You  quarrelled?" 

"No!  I  had  made  up  my  mind.  I  told  her  quite  definitely 
f  should  consider  myself  free." 

Clara  did  not  answer,  and  he  returned  to  his  work.  She 
was  so  quiet  and  so  superb! 

On  the  Saturday  evening  he  asked  her  to  come  and  drink 
coffee  with  him  in  a  restaurant,  meeting  him  after  work  was 
<  >ver.  She  came,  looking  very  reserved  and  very  distant.  He 
had  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  train-time. 

"We  will  walk  a  little  while,"  he  said. 

She  agreed,  and  they  went  past  the  Castle  into  the  Park. 
He  was  afraid  of  her.  She  walked  moodily  at  his  side,  with 


passion  357 

a  kind  of  resentful,  reluctant,  angry  walk.  He  was  afraid 
to  take  her  hand. 

"Which  way  shall  we  go?"  he  asked  as  they  walked  in 
darkness. 

"I  don't  mind." 

"Then  we'll  go  up  the  steps." 

He  suddenly  turned  round.  They  had  passed  the  Park 
steps.  She  stood  still  in  resentment  at  his  suddenly  abandon- 
ing her.  He  looked  for  her.  She  stood  aloof.  He  caught  her 
suddenly  in  his  arms,  held  her  strained  for  a  moment,  kissed 
her.  Then  he  let  her  go. 
r  "Come  along,"  he  said,  penitent. 

She  followed  him.  He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  her  finger- 
tips. They  went  in  silence.  When  they  came  to  the  light,  he 
let  go  her  hand.  Neither  spoke  till  they  reached  the  station. 
Then  they  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes. 

"Good-night,"  she  said. 

And  he  went  for  his  train.  His  body  acted  mechanically. 
People  talked  to  him.  He  heard  faint  echoes  answering  them. 
He  was  in  a  delirium.  He  felt  that  he  would  go  mad  if 
Monday  did  not  come  at  once.  On  Monday  he  would  see 
her  again.  All  himself  was  pitched  there,  ahead.  Sunday 
intervened.  He  could  not  bear  it.  He  could  not  see  her  till 
Monday.  And  Sunday  intervened— hour  after  hour  of  ten- 
sion. He  wanted  to  beat  his  head  against  the  door  of  the 
carriage.  But  he  sat  still.  He  drank  some  whisky  on  the  way 
home,  but  it  only  made  it  worse.  His  mother  must  not  be 
upset,  that  was  all.  He  dissembled,  and  got  quickly  to  bed. 
There  he  sat,  dressed,  with  his  chin  on  his  knees,  staring  out 
of  the  window  at  the  far  hill,  with  its  few  lights.  He  neither 
thought  nor  slept,  but  sat  perfectly  still,  staring.  And  when 
at  last  he  was  so  cold  that  he  came  to  himself,  he  found  his 
watcCi  had  stopped  at  half-past  two.  It  was  after  three 
o'clock.  He  was  exhausted,  but  still  there  was  the  torment  of 
knowing  it  was  only  Sunday  morning.  He  went  to  bed  and 
slept.  Then  he  cycled  all  day  long,  till  he  was  fagged  out. 
And  he  scarcely  knew  where  he  had  been.  But  the  day  after 
was  Monday.  He  slept  till  four  o'clock.  Then  he  lay  and 


358  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

thought.  He  was  coming  nearer  to  himself— he  could  see 
himself,  real,  somewhere  in  front.  She  would  go  a  walk  with 
him  in  the  afternoon.  Afternoon!  It  seemed  years  ahead. 

Slowly  the  hours  crawled.  His  father  got  up;  he  heard 
him  pottering  about.  Then  the  miner  set  off  to  the  pit,  his 
heavy  boots  scraping  the  yard.  Cocks  were  still  crowing.  A 
cart  went  down  the  road.  His  mother  got  up.  She  knocked 
the  fire.  Presently  she  called  him  softly.  He  answered  as  if 
he  were  asleep.  This  shell  of  himself  did  well. 

He  was  walking  to  the  station— another  mile!  The  train 
was  near  Nottingham.  Would  it  stop  before  the  tunnels? 
But  it  did  not  matter;  it  would  get  there  before  dinner-time. 
He  was  at  Jordan's.  She  would  come  in  half  an  hour.  At  any 
rate,  she  would  be  near.  He  had  done  the  letters.  She  would 
be  there.  Perhaps  she  had  not  come.  He  ran  downstairs.  Ah! 
he  saw  her  through  the  glass  door.  Her  shoulders  stooping 
a  little  to  her  work  made  him  feel  he  could  not  go  forward; 
he  could  not  stand.  He  went  in.  He  was  pale,  nervous,  awk- 
ward, and  quite  cold.  Would  she  misunderstand  him?  He 
could  not  right  his  real  self  with  this  shell. 

"And  this  afternoon,"  he  struggled  to  say.  "You  will 
come?" 

"I  think  so,"  she  replied,  murmuring. 

He  stood  before  her,  unable  to  say  a  word.  She  hid  her 
face  from  him.  Again  came  over  him  the  feeling  that  he 
would  lose  consciousness.  Fie  set  his  teeth  and  went  up- 
stairs. He  had  done  everything  correctly  yet,  and  he  would 
do  so.  All  the  morning  things  seemed  a  long  way  off,  as  they 
do  to  a  man  under  chloroform.  He  himself  seemed  under 
a  tight  band  of  constraint.  Then  there  was  his  other  self,  in 
the  distance,  doing  things,  entering  stuff  in  a  ledger,  and  he 
watched  that  far-off  him  carefully  to  see  he  made  no  mis- 
take. 

But  the  ache  and  strain  of  it  could  not  go  on  much  longer. 
He  worked  incessantly.  Still  it  was  only  twelve  o'clock.  As 
if  he  had  nailed  his  clothing  against  the  desk,  he  stood  there 
and  worked,  forcing  every  stroke  out  of  himself.  It  was  a 
quarter  to  one;  he  could  clear  away.  Then  he  ran  downstairs. 


passion  359 

"You  will  meet  me  at  the  Fountain  at  two  o'clock,™  he 
said. 

"I  can't  be  there  till  half-past." 
"Yes!"  he  said. 
She  saw  his  dark,  mad  eyes. 
"I  will  try  at  a  quarter-past." 

And  he  had  to  be  content.  He  went  and  got  some  dinner. 
All  the  time  he  was  still  under  chloroform,  and  every  minute 
was  stretched  out  indefinitely.  He  walked  miles  of  street. 
Then  he  thought  he  would  be  late  at  the  meeting-place.  He 
was  at  the  Fountain  at  five  past  two.  The  torture  of  the  next 
quarter  of  an  hour  was  refined  beyond  expression.  It  was 
the  anguish  of  combining  the  living  self  with  the  shell.  Then 
he  saw  her.  She  came!  And  he  was  there. 

"You  are  late,"  he  said. 

"Only  five  minutes,"  she  answered. 

"I'd  never  have  done  it  to  you,"  he  laughed. 

She  was  in  a  dark  blue  costume.  He  looked  at  her  beautiful 
figure.  1 

"You  want  some  flowers,"  he  said,  going  to  the  nearest 
florists. 

She  followed  him  in  silence.  He  bought  her  a  bunch  of 
scarlet,  brick-red  carnations.  She  put  them  in  her  coat, 
flushing. 

"That's  a  fine  colour!"  he  said. 

"I'd  rather  have  had  something  softer,"  she  said. 

He  laughed. 

"Do  you  feel  like  a  blot  of  vermilion  walking  down  the 
street!"  he  said. 

She  hung  her  head,  afraid  of  the  people  they  met.  He 
looked  sideways  at  her  as  they  walked.  There  was  a  wonder- 
ful close  down  on  her  face  near  the  ear  that  he  wanted  to 
touch.  And  a  certain  heaviness,  the  heaviness  of  a  very  full 
ear  of  corn  that  dips  slightly  in  the  wind,  that  there  was 
about  her,  made  his  brain  spin.  He  seemed  to  be  spinning 
down  the  street,  everything  going  round. 

As  they  sat  in  the  tramcar,  she  leaned  her  heavy  shoulder 
against  him,  and  he  took  her  hand.  He  felt  himself  coming 


360  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

round  from  the  anaesthetic,  beginning  to  breathe.  Her  ear, 
half  hidden  among  her  blonde  hair,  was  near  to  him.  The 
temptation  to  kiss  it  was  almost  too  great.  But  there  were 
other  people  on  top  of  the  car.  It  still  remained  to  him  to 
kiss  it.  After  all,  he  was  not  himself,  he  was  some  attribute 
of  hers,  like  the  sunshine  that  fell  on  her. 

He  looked  quickly  away.  It  had  been  raining.  The  big 
bluff  of  the  Castle  rock  was  streaked  with  rain,  as  it  reared 
above  the  flat  of  the  town.  They  crossed  the  wide,  black 
space  of  the  Midland  Railway,  and  passed  the  cattle  en- 
closure that  stood  out  white.  Then  they  ran  down  sordid 
Wilford  Road. 

She  rocked  slightly  to  the  tram's  motion,  and  as  she  leaned 
against  him,  rocked  upon  him.  He  was  a  vigorous,  slender 
man,  with  exhaustless  energy.  His  face  was  rough,  with 
rough-hewn  features,  like  the  common  people's;  but  his  eyes 
under  the  deep  brows  were  so  full  of  life  that  they  fasci- 
nated her.  They  seemed  to  dance,  and  yet  they  were  still, 
trembling  on  the  finest  balance  of  laughter.  His  mouth  the 
same  was  just  going  to  spring  into  a  laugh  of  triumph,  yet 
did  not.  There  was  a  sharp  suspense  about  him.  She  bit  her 
lip  moodily.  His  hand  was  hard  clenched  over  hers. 

They  paid  their  two  halfpennies  at  the  turnstile  and 
crossed  the  bridge.  The  Trent  was  very  full.  It  swept  silent 
and  insidious  under  the  bridge,  travelling  in  a  soft  body. 
There  had  been  a  great  deal  of  rain.  On  the  river  levels  were 
flat  gleams  of  flood  water.  The  sky  was  grey,  with  glisten 
of  silver  here  and  there.  In  Wilford  Churchyard  the  dahlias 
were  sodden  with  rain— wet  black-crimson  balls.  No  one  was 
on  the  path  that  went  along  the  green  river  meadow,  along 
the  elm-tree  colonnade. 

There  was  the  faintest  haze  over  the  silvery-dark  water 
and  the  green  meadow-banks,  and  the  elm-trees  that  were 
spangled  with  gold.  The  river  slid  by  in  a  body,  utterly  silent 
and  swift,  intertwining  among  itself  like  some  subtle,  com- 
plex creature.  Clara  walked  moodily  beside  him. 

"Why,"  she  asked  at  length,  in  rather  a  jarring  tone,  "did 
you  leave  Miriam?" 


PASSION  361 

He  frowned. 

"Because  I  wanted  to  leave  her,"  he  said. 
"Why?" 

"Because  I  didn't  want  to  go  on  with  her.  And  I  didn't 
want  to  marry." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  They  picked  their  way  down 
the  muddy  path.  Drops  of  water  fell  from  the  elm-trees. 

"You  didn't  want  to  marry  Miriam,  or  you  didn't  want 
;o  marry  at  all?"  she  asked. 

"Both,"  he  answered-"both!" 

They  had  to  manoeuvre  to  get  to  the  stile,  because  of  the 
pools  of  water. 

"And  what  did  she  say?"  Clara  asked. 

"Miriam?  She  said  I  was  a  baby  of  four,  and  that  I  always 
had  battled  her  off." 

Clara  pondered  over  this  for  a  time. 

"But  you  have  really  been  going  with  her  for  some  time?1 
she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"And  now  you  don't  want  any  more  of  her?" 
"No.  I  know  it's  no  good." 
She  pondered  again. 

"Don't  you  think  you've  treated  her  rather  badly? "  ihe 
asked. 

"Yes;  L ought  to  have  dropped  it  years  back.  But  i?  would 
have  been  no  good  going  on.  Two  wrongs  don't  make  a 
right." 

"How  old  are  you?"  Clara  asked. 

"Twenty-five." 

"And  I  am  thirty,"  she  said. 

"I  know  you  are." 

"I  shall  be  thirty-one— or  am  I  thirty-one?'1 
"I  neither  know  nor  care.  What  does  it  matter  it!" 
They  were  at  the  entrance  to  the  Grove.  The  wet,  red 
track,  already  sticky  with  fallen  leaves,  went  up  the  steep 
bank  between  the  grass.  On  either  side  stood  the  elm-trees 
like  pillars  along  a  great  aisle,  arching  over  and  making  high 
up  a  roof  from  which  the  dead  leaves  fell.  All  was  empty 


362  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

and  silent  and  wet.  She  stood  on  top  of  the  stile,  and  he  held 
both  her  hands.  Laughing,  she  looked  down  into  his  eyes. 
Then  she  leaped.  Her  breast  came  against  his;  he  held  her, 
and  covered  her  face  with  kisses. 

They  went  on  up  the  slippery,  steep  red  path.  Presently 
she  released  his  hand  and  put  it  round  her  waist. 

"You  press  the  vein  in  my  arm,  holding  it  so  tightly ," 
she  said. 

They  walked  along.  His  finger-tips  felt  the  rocking  of 
her  breast.  All  was  silent  and  deserted.  On  the  left  the  red 
wet  plough-land  showed  through  the  doorways  between 
the  elm-boles  and  their  branches.  On  the  right,  looking  down, 
they  could  see  the  tree-tops  of  elms  growing  far  beneath 
them,  hear  occasionally  the  gurgle  of  the  river.  Sometimes 
there  below  they  caught  glimpses  of  the  full,  soft-sliding 
Trent,  and  of  water-meadows  dotted  with  small  cattle. 

"It  has  scarcely  altered  since  little  Kirke  White  used  to 
come,"  he  said. 

But  he  was  watching  her  throat  below  the  ear,  where  the 
flush  was  fusing  into  the  honey-white,  and  her  mouth  that 
pouted  disconsolate.  She  stirred  against  him  as  she  walked, 
and  his  body  was  like  a  taut  string. 

Half-way  up  the  big  colonnade  of  elms,  where  the  Grove 
rose  highest  above  the  river,  their  forward  movement  fal- 
tered to  an  end.  He  led  her  across  to  the  grass,  under 
the  trees  at  the  edge  of  the  path.  The  cliff  of  red  earth 
sloped  swiftly  down,  through  trees  and  bushes,  to  the 
river  that  glimmered  and  was  dark  between  the  foliage.  The 
far-below  water-meadows  were  very  green.  He  and  she 
stood  leaning  against  one  another,  silent,  afraid,  their  bodies 
touching  all  along.  There  came  a  quick  gurgle  from  the 
river  below. 

"Why,"  he  asked  at  length,  "did  you  hate  Baxter  Dawes?" 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  splendid  movement.  Her  mouth 
was  offered  him,  and  her  throat;  her  eyes  were  half  shut; 
her  breast  was  tilted  as  if  it  asked  for  him.  He  flashed  with 
a  small  laugh,  shut  his  eyes,  and  met  her  in  a  long,  whole 
kiss.  Her  mouth  fused  with  his;  their  bodies  were  sealed  and 


PASSION  36  J 

annealed.  It  was  some  minutes  before  they  withdrew.  They 
were  standing  beside  the  public  path. 

"Will  you  go  down  to  the  river?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him,  leaving  herself  in  his  hands.  He  went 
over  the  brim  of  the  declivity  and  began  to  climb  down. 

"It  is  slippery,"  he  said. 

"Never  mind,"  she  replied. 

The  red  clay  went  down  almost  sheer.  He  slid,  went  from 
one  tuft  of  grass  to  the  next,  hanging  on  to  the  bushes,  mak- 
ing for  a  little  platform  at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  There  he  waited 
for  her,  laughing  with  excitement.  Her  shoes  were  clogged 
with  red  earth.  It  was  hard  for  her.  He  frowned.  At  last  he 
caught  her  hand,  and  she  stood  beside  him.  The  cliff  rose- 
above  them  and  fell  away  below.  Her  colour  was  up,  her 
eyes  flashed.  He  looked  at  the  big  drop  below  them. 

"It's  risky,"  he  said;  "or  messy,  at  any  rate.  Shall  we  go 
back?" 

"Not  for  my  sake,"  she  said  quickly. 

"All  right.  You  see,  I  can't  help  you;  I  should  only  hinder. 
Give  me  that  little  parcel  and  your  gloves.  Your  poor  shoes!" 

They  stood  perched  on  the  face  of  the  declivity,  under  the 
trees. 

"Well,  I'll  go  again,"  he  said. 

Away  he  went,  slipping,  staggering,  sliding  to  the  next 
tree,  into  which  he  fell  with  a  slam  that  nearly  shook  the 
breath  out  of  him.  She  came  after  cautiously,  hanging  on 
to  the  twigs  and  grasses.  So  they  descended,  stage  by  stage, 
to  the  river's  brink.  There,  to  his  disgust,  the  flood  had  eaten 
away  the  path,  and  the  red  decline  ran  straight  into  the 
water.  He  dug  in  his  heels  and  brought  himself  up  violently. 
The  string  of  the  parcel  broke  with  a  snap;  the  brown  parcel 
bounded  down,  leaped  into  the  water,  and  sailed  smoothly 
away.  He  hung  on  to  his  tree. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  he  cried  crossly.  Then  he  laughed. 
She  was  coming  perilously  down. 

"Mind!"  he  warned  her.  He  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
tree,  waiting.  "Come  now,"  he  called,  opening  his  arms. 

She  let  herself  run.  He  caught  her,  and  together  they  stood 


364  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

watching  the  dark  water  scoop  at  the  raw  edge  of  the  bank. 
The  parcel  had  sailed  out  of  sight. 
"It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said. 

He  held  her  close  and  kissed  her.  There  was  only  room 
for  their  four  feet. 

"It's  a  swindle!"  he  said.  "But  there's  a  rut  where  a  man 
has  been,  so  if  we  go  on  I  guess  we  shall  find  the  path  again." 

The  river  slid  and  twined  its  great  volume.  On  the  other 
bank  cattTe  were  feeding  on  the  desolate  flats.  The  cliff  rose 
high  above  Paul  and  Clara  on  their  right  hand.  They  stood 
against  the  tree  in  the  watery  silence. 

"Let  us  try  going  forward,"  he  said;  and  they  struggled 
in  the  red  clay  along  the  groove  a  man's  nailed  boots  had 
made.  They  were  hot  and  flushed.  Their  barkled  shoes  hung 
heavy  on  their  steps.  At  last  they  found  the  broken  path. 
It  was  littered  with  rubble  from  the  water,  but  at  any  rate 
it  was  easier.  They  cleaned  their  boots  with  twigs.  His  heart 
was  beating  thick  and  fast. 

Suddenly,  coming  on  to  the  little  level,  he  saw  two  figures 
of  men  standing  silent  at  the  water's  edge.  His  heart  leaped. 
They  were  fishing.  He  turned  and  put  his  hand  up  warningly 
to  Clara.  She  hesitated,  buttoned  her  coat.  The  two  went  on 
together. 

The  fishermen  turned  curiously  to  watch  the  two  in- 
truders on  their  privacy  and  solitude.  They  had  had  a  fire, 
but  it  was  nearly  out.  All  kept  perfectly  still.  The  men  turned 
again  to  their  fishing,  stood  over  the  grey  glinting  river  like 
statues.  Clara  went  with  bowed  head,  flushing;  he  was  laugh- 
ing to  himself.  Directly  they  passed  out  of  sight  behind  the 
willows. 

"Now  they  ought  to  be  drowned,"  said  Paul  softly. 

Clara  did  not  answer.  They  toiled  forward  along  a  tiny 
path  on  the  river's  lip.  Suddenly  it  vanished.  The  bank  was 
sheer  red  solid  clay  in  front  of  them,  sloping  straight  into 
the  river.  He  stood  and  cursed  beneath  his  breath,  setting 
his  teeth. 

"It  is  impossible!"  said  Clara. 

He  stood  erect,  looking  round.  Just  ahead  were  two  islets 


PASSION  365 

in  the  stream,  covered  with  osiers.  But  they  were  unattain- 
able. The  cliff  came  down  like  a  sloping  wall  from  far  above 
their  heads.  Behind,  not  far  back,  were  the  fishermen.  Across 
the  river  the  distant  cattle  fed  silently  in  the  desolate  after- 
noon. He  cursed  again  deeply  under  his  breath.  He  gazed  up 
the  great  steep  bank.  Was  there  no  hope  but  to  scale  back 
to  the  public  path? 

"Stop  a  minute,"  he  said,  and,  digging  his  heels  sideways 
into  the  steep  bank  of  red  clay,  he  began  nimbly  to  mount. 
He  looked  across  at  every  tree-foot.  At  last  he  found  what 
he  wanted.  Two  beech-trees  side  by  side  on  the  hill  held  a 
little  level  on  the  upper  face  between  their  roots.  It  was 
littered  with  damp  leaves,  but  it  would  do.  The  fishermen 
were  perhaps  sufficiently  out  of  sight.  He  threw  down  his 
rainproof  and  waved  to  her  to  come. 

She  toiled  to  his  side.  Arriving  there,  she  looked  at  him 
heavily,  dumbly,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  He  held 
her  fast  as  he  looked  round.  TThey  were  safe  enough  from  all 
but  the  small,  lonely  cows  over  the  river.  He  sunk  his  mouth 
on  her  throat,  where  he  felt  her  heavy  pulse  beat  under  his 
lips.  Everything  was  perfectly  still.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  afternoon  but  themselves. 

When  she  arose,  he,  looking  on  the  ground  all  the  time, 
saw  suddenly  sprinkled  on  the  black,  wet  beech-roots  many 
scarlet  carnation  petals,  like  splashed  drops  of  blood;  and 
red,  small  splashes  fell  from  her  bosom,  streaming  down  her 
dress  to  her  feet. 

"Your  flowers  are  smashed,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  heavily  as  she  put  back  her  hair.  Sud- 
denly he  put  his  finger-tips  on  her  cheek. 

"Why  dost  look  so  heavy?"  he  reproached  her. 

She  smiled  sadly,  as  if  she  felt  alone  in  herself.  He  caressed 
her  cheek  with  his  fingers,  and  kissed  her.  1 

"Nay!"  he  said.  "Never  thee  bother!" 

She  gripped  his  fingers  tight,  arid  laughed  shakily.  Then 
she  dropped  her  hand.  He  put  the  hair  back  from  her  brows, 
stroking  her  temples,  kissing  them  lightly. 

"But  tha  shouldna  worrit!"  he  said  softly,  pleading. 


366  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"No,  I  don't  worry!"  she  laughed  tenderly  and  resigned. 
"Yea,  tha  does!  Dunna  thee  worrit,"  he  implored,  ca- 
ressing. 

"No!"  she  consoled  him,  kissing  him. 

They  had  a  stiff  climb  to  get  to  the  top  again.  It  took 
them  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  When  he  got  on  to  the  level 
grass,  he  threw  off  his  cap,  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  fore- 
head, and  sighed. 

"Now  we're  back  at  the  ordinary  level,"  he  said. 

She  sat  down,  panting,  on  the  tussocky  grass.  Her  cheeks 
tfere  flushed  pink.  He  kissed  her,  and  she  gave  way  to  joy. 

"And  now  I'll  clean  thy  boots  and  make  thee  fit  for  re- 
ipectable  folk,"  he  said. 

He  kneeled  at  her  feet,  worked  away  with  a  stick  and 
tufts  of  grass.  She  put  her  fingers  in  his  hair,  drew  his  head 
to  her,  and  kissed  it. 

"What  am  I  supposed  to  be  doing,"  he  said,  looking  at 
her  laughing;  "cleaning  shoes  or  dibbling  with  love?  Answer 
me  that!" 

"Just  whichever  I  please,"  she  replied. 

"I'm  your  boot-boy  for  the  time  being,  and  nothing  else!" 
But  they  remained  looking  into  each  other's  eyes  and  laugh- 
ing. Then  they  kissed  with  little  nibbling  kisses. 

"T-t-t-t!"  he  went  with  his  tongue,  like  his  mother.  "I  tell 
you,  nothing  gets  done  when  there's  a  woman  about." 

And  he  returned  to  his  boot-cleaning,  singing  softly.  She 
touched  his  thick  hair,  and  he  kissed  her  fingers.  He  worked 
away  at  her  shoes.  At  last  they  were  quite  presentable. 

"There  you  are,  you  see!"  he  said.  "Aren't  I  a  great  hand 
at  restoring  you  to  respectability?  Stand  up!  There,  you 
look  as  irreproachable  as  Britannia  herself!" 

He  cleaned  his  own  boots  a  little,  washed  his  hands  in  a 
puddle,  and  sang.  They  went  on  into  Clifton  village.  He 
was  madly  in  love  with  her;  every  movement  she  made, 
every  crease  in  her  garments,  sent  a  hot  flash  through  him 
and  seemed  adorable. 

The  old  lady  at  whose  house  they  had  tea  was  roused  into 
gaiety  by  them. 


PASSION  367 

"I  could  wish  you'd  had  something  of  a  better  day,"  sho 
said,  hovering  round. 

"Nay!"  he  laughed.  "We've  been  saying  how  nice  it  is." 

The  old  lady  looked  at  him  curiously.  There  was  a  pe- 
culiar glow  and  charm  about  him.  His  eyes  were  dark  and 
laughing.  He  rubbed  his  moustache  with  a  glad  movement. 

"Have  you  been  saying  sol"  she  exclaimed,  a  light  rous- 
ing in  her  old  eyes. 

"Truly!"  he  laughed. 

"Then  I'm  sure  the  day's  good  enough,"  said  the  old  lady. 
She  fussed  about,  and  did  not  want  to  leave  them. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you'd  like  some  radishes  as  well," 
she  said  to  Clara;  "but  I've  got  some  in  the  garden  -and  t 
cucumber." 

Clara  flushed.  She  looked  very  handsome. 

"I  should  like  some  radishes,"  she  answered. 

And  the  old  lady  pottered  off  gleefully. 

"If  she  knew!"  said  Clara  quietly  to  him. 

"Well,  she  doesn't  know;  and  it  shows  we're  nice  in 
ourselves,  at  any  rate.  You  look  quite  enough  to  satisfy  &n 
archangel,  and  I'm  sure  I  feel  harmless— so— if  it  makes  you 
look  nice,  and  makes  folk  happy  when  they  have  us,  and 
makes  us  happy— why,  we're  not  cheating  them  out  of 
much!" 

They  went  on  with  the  meal.  When  they  were  going 
away,  the  old  lady  came  timidly  with  three  tiny  dahlias  in 
full  blow,  neat  as  bees,  and  speckled  scarlet  and  white.  She 
stood  before  Clara,  pleased  with  herself,  saying: 

"I  don't  know  whether—"  and  holding  the  flowers  forward 
in  her  old  hand. 

"Oh,  how  pretty!"  cried  Clara,  accepting  the  flowers. 

"Shall  she  have  them  all?"  asked  Paul  reproachfully  of  the 
old  woman. 

"Yes,  she  shall  have  them  all,"  she  replied,  beaming  with 
joy.  "You  have  got  enough  for  your  share." 

"Ah,  but  I  shall  ask  her  to  give  me  one!"  he  teased. 

"Then  she  does  as  she  pleases,"  said  the  old  lady,  smiling. 
And  she  bobbed  a  little  curtsey  of  delight. 


3 68  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Clara  was  rather  quiet  and  uncomfortable.  As  they  walked 
along,  he  said: 

"You  don't  feel  criminal,  do  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled  grey  eyes. 

"Criminal!"  she  said.  "No." 

"But  you  seem  to  feel  you  have  done  a  wrong?" 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  only  think,  'If  they  knew!'  " 

"If  they  knew,  they'd  cease  to  understand.  As  it  is,  they 
do  understand,  and  they  like  it.  What  do  they  matter?  Here, 
with  only  the  trees  and  me,  you  don't  feel  not  the  least  bit 
wrong,  do  you?" 

He  took  her  by  the  arm,  held  her  facing  him,  holding  her 
eyes  with  his.  Something  fretted  him. 

"Not  sinners,  are  we?"  he  said,  with  an  uneasy  little  frown. 

"No,"  she  replied. 

He  kissed  her,  laughing. 

"You  like  your  little  bit  of  guiltiness,  I  believe,"  he  said, 
i     "I  believe  Eve  enjoyed  it,  when  she  went  cowering  out  of 
Paradise." 

But  there  was  a  certain  glow  and  quietness  about  her 
that  made  him  glad.  When  he  was  alone  in  the  railway- 
carriage,  he  found  himself  tumultuously  happy,  and  the 
people  exceedingly  nice,  and  the  night  lovely,  and  every- 
thing good. 

Mrs.  Morel  was  sitting  reading  when  he  got  home.  Her 
health  was  not  good  now,  and  there  had  come  that  ivory 
pallor  into  her  face  which  he  never  noticed,  and  which  after- 
wards he  never  forgot.  She  did  not  mention  her  own  ill— 
'Ziealth  to  him.  After  all,  she  thought,  it  was  not  much. 

"You  are  late!"  she  said,  looking  at  him. 

His  eyes  were  shining;  his  face  seemed  to  glow.  He  smiled 
,o  her. 

"Yes;  I've  been  down  Clifton  Grove  with  Clara." 
His  mother  looked  at  him  again. 
"But  won't  people  talk?"  she  said. 

"Why?  They  know  she's  a  suffragette,  and  so  on.  And 
what  if  they  do  talk!" 

"Of  course,  there  may  be  nothing  wrong  in  it,"  said  his 


PASSION  369 

mother.  "But  you  know  what  folk  3  ,re,  and  if  once  she  gets 
talked  about  " 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it.  Their  jaw  isn't  so  almighty  im- 
portant, after  all." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  consider  her" 

"So  I  do\  What  can  people  say?— that  we  take  a  A^alk 
together.  I  believe  you're  jealous." 

"You  know  I  should  be  glad  if  she  weren't  a  married 
woman." 

"Well,  my  dear,  she  lives  separate  from  her  husband, 
and  talks  on  platforms;  so  she's  already  singled  out  from 
the  sheep,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  hasn't  much  to  lose.  No; 
her  life's  nothing  to  her,  so  what's  the  worth  of  nothing? 
She  goes  with  me— it  becomes  something.  Then  she  must  pay 
—we  both  must  pay!  Folk  are  so  frightened  of  paying;  they'd 
rather  starve  and  die." 

"Very  well,  my  son.  We'll  see  how  it  will  end." 

"Very  well,  my  mother.  I'll  abide  by  the  end." 

"We'll  see!" 

"And  she's— she's  awfully  nice,  mother;  she  is  really!  You 
don't  know!" 

"That's  not  the  same  as  marrying  her." 
"It's  perhaps  better." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  while.  He  wanted  to  ask  his 
mother  something,  but  was  afraid. 

"Should  you  like  to  know  her?"  He  hesitated. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morel  coolly.  "I  should  like  to  know 
what  she's  like." 

"But  she's  nice,  mother,  she  is!  And  not  a  bit  common!" 

"I  never  suggested  she  was." 

"But  you  seem  to  think  she's— not  as  good  as—  She's  bet- 
ter than  ninety-nine  folk  out  of  a  hundred,  I  tell  you!  She'o 
better,  she  is!  She's  fair,  she's  honest,  she's  straight!  There 
isn't  anything  underhand  or  superior  about  her.  Don't  be 
mean  about  her!" 

Mrs.  Morel  flushed. 

"I  am  sure  I  am  not  mean  about  .her.  She  may  be  quitCr 
as  you  say,  but  — " 


370  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"You  don't  approve,"  he  finished. 
"And  do  you  expect  me  to?"  she  answered  coldly. 
"Yes!— yes!— if  you'd  anything  about  you,  you'd  be  glad! 
Do  you  want  to  see  her?" 
"I  said  I  did." 

"Then  I'll  bring  her—shall  I  bring  her  here?" 
"You  please  yourself." 

"Then  I  will  bring  her  here— one  Sunday— to  tea.  If  you 
think  a  horrid  thing  about  her,  I  shan't  forgive  you." 
His  mother  laughed. 

"As  if  it  would  make  any  difference!"  she  said.  He  knew 
he  had  won. 

"Oh,  but  it  feels  so  fine,  mother,  when  she's  there!  She's 
Such  a  queen  in  her  way." 

Occasionally  he  still  walked  a  little  way  from  chapel 
with  Miriam  and  Edgar.  He  did  not  go  up  to  the  farm.  She, 
however,  was  very  much  the  same  with  him,  and  he  did  not 
feel  embarrassed  in  her  presence.  One  evening  she  was  alone 
when  he  accompanied  her.  They  began  by  talking  books;  it 
Was  their  unfailing  topic.  Mrs.  Morel  had  said  that  his  and 
Miriam's  affair  was  like  a  fire  fed  on  books— if  there  were 
no  more  volumes  it  would  die  out.  Miriam,  for  her  part, 
boasted  that  she  could  read  him  like  a  book,  could  place  her 
finger  any  minute  on  the  chapter  and  the  line.  He,  easily 
taken  in,  believed  that  Miriam  knew  more  about  him  than 
anyone  else.  So  it  pleased  him  to  talk  to  her  about  himself, 
like  the  simplest  egoist.  Very  soon  the  conversation  drifted 
to  his  own  doings.  It  flattered  him  immensely  that  he  was 
of  such  supreme  interest. 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing  lately?" 

"I— oh,  not  much!  I  made  a  sketch  of  Bestwood  from  the 
garden,  that  is  nearly  right  at  last.  It's  the  hundredth  try." 

So  they  went  on.  Then  she  said: 

"You've  not  been  out,  then,  lately?" 

"Yes;  I  went  up  Clifton  Grove  on  Monday  afternoon 
with  Clara." 

"It  was  not  very  nice  weather,"  said  Miriam,  "was  it?" 


PASSION  37I 

"But  I  wanted  to  go  out,  and  it  was  all  right.  The  Trent 
is  full." 

"And  did  you  go  to  Barton?"  she  asked. 
"No;  we  had  tea  in  Clifton." 
"Did  you!  That  would  be  nice." 

"It  was!  The  j oiliest  old  woman!  She  gave  us  several 
pom-pom  dahlias,  as  pretty  as  you  like." 

Miriam  bowed  her  head  and  brooded.  He  was  quite  uncon- 
scious of  concealing  anything  from  her. 

"What  made  her  give  them  you?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed. 

"Because  she  liked  us— because  we  were  jolly,  I  should 
think." 

Miriam  put  her  finger  in  her  mouth. 
"Were  you  late  home?"  she  asked. 
At  last  he  resented  her  tone. 
"I  caught  the  seven-thirty." 
"Ha!" 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  and  he  was  angry. 
"And  how  is  Clara?"  asked  Miriam. 
"Quite  all  right,  I  think." 

"That's  good!"  she  said,  with  a  tinge  of  irony.  "By  the 
way,  what  of  her  husband?  One  never  hears  anything  of 
him." 

"He's  got  some  other  woman,  and  is  also  quite  all  right," 
he  replied.  "At  least,  so  I  think." 

"I  see— you  don't  know  for  certain.  Don't  you  think  a 
position  like  that  is  hard  on  a  woman?" 

"Rottenly  hard!" 

"It's  so  unjust!"  said  Miriam.  "The  man  does  as  he 
likes  " 

"Then  let  the  woman  also,"  he  said. 

"How  can  she?  And  if  she  does,  look  at  her  position!" 

"What  of  it?" 

"Why,  it's  impossible!  You  don't  understand  what  a 

woman  forfeits  " 

"No,  I  don't.  But  if  a  woman's  got  nothing  but  her  fair 


372  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

fame  to  feed  on,  why,  it's  thin  tack,  and  a  donkey  would 
die  of  it!" 

So  she  understood  his  moral  attitude,  at  least,  and  she 
knew  he  would  act  accordingly. 

She  never  asked  him  anything  direct,  but  she  got  to  know 
enough. 

Another  Jay,  when  he  saw  Miriam,  the  conversation 
turned  to  marriage,  then  to  Clara's  marriage  with  Dawes. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "she  never  knew  the  fearful  impor- 
tance of  marriage.  She  thought  it  was  all  in  the  day's  march 
—it  would  have  to  come— and  Dawes— well,  a  good  many 
women  v/ould  have  given  their  souls  to  get  him;  so  why 
not  him?  Then  she  developed  into  the  femme  incomprise,  and 
treated  him  badly,  I'll  bet  my  boots." 

"And  she  left  him  because  he  didn't  understand  her?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I  suppose  she  had  to.  It  isn't  altogether  a 
question  of  understanding;  it's  a  question  of  living.  With 
him,  she  was  only  half  alive;  the  rest  was  dormant,  deadened. 
And  the  dormant  woman  was  the  jemme  incomprise,  and 
she  had  to  be  awakened." 

"And  what  about  him?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  rather  think  he  loves  her  as  much  as  he 
can,  but  he's  a  fool." 

"It  was  something  like  your  mother  and  father,"  said 
Miriam. 

"Yes;  but  my  mother,  I  believe,  got  real  joy  and  satis- 
faction out  of  my  father  at  first.  I  believe  she  had  a  passion 
for  him;  that's  why  she  stayed  with  him.  After  all,  they 
were  bound  to  each  other." 

"Yes,"  said  Miriam. 

"That's  what  one  must  have,  I  think,"  he  continued— "the 
real,  real  flame  of  feeling  through  another  person— once, 
only  once,  if  it  only  lasts  three  months.  See,  my  mother  looks 
as  if  she'd  had  everything  that  was  necessary  for  her  living 
and  developing.  There's  not  a  tiny  bit  of  a  feeling  of  sterility 
about  her." 

"No,"  said  Miriam. 

"And  with  my  father,  at  first,  I'm  sure  she  had  the  real 


passion  373 

thing.  She  knows;  she  has  been  there.  You  can  feci  it  about 
her,  and  about  him,  and  about  hundreds  of  people  you  meet 
every  day;  and,  once  it  has  happened  to  you,  you  can  go 
on  with  anything  and  ripen." 

"What  has  happened,  exactly?"  asked  Miriam. 

"It's  so  hard  to  say,  but  the  something  big  and  intense 
that  changes  you  when  you  really  come  together  with  some- 
body else.  It  almost  seems  to  fertilize  your  soul  and  make  it 
that  you  can  go  on  and  mature." 

"And  you  think  your  mother  had  it  with  your  father?" 

"Yes;  and  at  the  bottom  she  feels  grateful  to  him  for  giving 
it  her,  even  now,  though  they  are  miles  apart." 

"And  you  think  Clara  never  had  it?" 

"I'm  sure." 

Miriam  pondered  this.  She  saw  what  he  was  seeking— a 
sort  of  baptism  of  fire  in  passion,  it  seemed  to  her.  She  real- 
ized that  he  would  never  be  satisfied  till  he  had  it.  Perhaps 
it  was  essential  to  him,  as  to  some  men,  to  sow  wild  oats; 
and  afterwards,  when  he  was  satisfied,  he  would  not  rage 
with  restlessness  any  more,  but  could  settle  down  and  give 
her  his  life  into  her  hands.  Well,  then,  if  he  must  go,  let  him 
go  and  have  his  fill— something  big  and  intense,  he  called  it. 
At  any  rate,  when  he  had  got  it,  he  would  not  want  it— that 
he  said  himself;  he  would  want  the  other  thing  that  she 
could  give  him.  He  would  want  to  be  owned,  so  that  he 
could  work.  It  seemed  to  her  a  bitter  thing  that  he  must  go, 
but  she  could  let  him  go  into  an  inn  for  a  glass  of  whisky,  so 
she  could  let  him  go  to  Clara,  so  long  as  it  was  something 
that  would  satisfy  a  need  in  him,  and  leave  him  free  for  her- 
self to  possess. 

"Have  you  told  your  mother  about  Clara?"  she  asked. 

She  knew  this  would  be  a  test  of  the  seriousness  of  his 
feeling  for  the  other  woman;  she  knew  he  was  going  to  Clant 
for  something  vital,  not  as  a  man  goes  for  pleasure  to  n 
prostitute,  if  he  told  his  mother. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  she  is  coming  to  tea  on  Sunday." 

"To  your  house?" 

"Yes;  I  want  mater  to  see  her." 


374  SONS  AND  lovers 

"Ah!" 

There  was  a  silence.  Things  had  gone  quicker  than  she 
thought.  She  felt  a  sudden  bitterness  that  he  could  leave 
her  so  soon  and  so  entirely.  And  was  Clara  to  be  accepted 
by  his  people,  who  had  been  so  hostile  to  herself? 

"I  may  call  in  as  I  go  to  chapel,"  she  said.  "It  is  a  long  time 
since  I  saw  Clara." 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  astonished,  and  unconsciously  angry. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon  he  went  to  Keston  to  meet  Clara 
at  the  station.  As  he  stood  on  the  platform  he  was  trying  to 
examine  in  himself  if  he  had  a  premonition. 

"Do  I  feel  as  if  she'd  come?"  he  said  to  himself,  and  he 
tried  to  find  out.  His  heart  felt  queer  and  contracted.  That 
seemed  like  foreboding.  Then  he  had  a  foreboding  she  would 
not  come!  Then  she  would  not  come,  and  instead  of  taking 
her  over  the  fields  home,  as  he  had  imagined,  he  would 
have  to  go  alone.  The  train  was  late;  the  afternoon  would 
be  wasted,  and  the  evening.  He  hated  her  for  not  coming. 
Why  had  she  promised,  then,  if  she  could  not  keep  her 
promise?  Perhaps  she  had  missed  her  train— he  himself  was 
always  missing  trains— but  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
miss  this  particular  one.  He  was  angry  with  her;  he  was 
furious. 

Suddenly  he  saw  the  train  crawling,  sneaking  round  the 
Corner.  Here,  then,  was  the  train,  but  of  course  she  had  not 
come.  The  green  engine  hissed  along  the  platform,  the  row 
of  brown  carriages  drew  up,  several  doors  opened.  No;  she 
had  not  come!  No!  Yes;  ah,  there  she  was!  She  had  a  big 
black  hat  on!  He  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment. 

"I  thought  you  weren't  coming,"  he  said. 

She  was  laughing  rather  breathlessly  as  she  put  out  her 
hand  to  him;  their  eyes  met.  He  took  her  quickly  along  the 
platform,  talking  at  a  great  rate  to  hide  his  feeling.  She 
looked  beautiful.  In  her  hat  were  large  silk  roses,  coloured 
like  tarnished  gold.  Her  costume  of  dark  cloth  fitted  so 
beautifully  over  her  breast  and  shoulders.  His  pride  went  up 
as  he  walked  with  her.  He  felt  the  station  people,  who  knew 
him,  eyed  her  with  awe  and  admiration. 


passion  375 

"I  was  sure  you  weren't  coming,"  he  laughed  shakily. 

She  laughed  in  answer,  almost  with  a  little  cry. 

"And  I  wondered,  when  I  was  in  the  train,  whatever  I 
should  do  if  you  weren't  there!"  she  said. 

He  caught  her  hand  impulsively,  and  they  went  along 
the  narrow  twitchel.  They  took  the  road  into  Nuttall  and 
over  the  Reckoning  House  Farm.  It  was  a  blue,  mild  day. 
Everywhere  the  brown  leaves  lay  scattered;  many  scarlet 
hips  stood  upon  the  hedge  beside  the  wood.  He  gathered  a 
few  for  her  to  wear. 

"Though,  really,"  he  said,  as  he  fitted  them  into  the  breast 
of  her  coat,  "you  ought  to  object  to  my  getting  them,  be- 
cause of  the  birds.  But  they  don't  care  much  for  rose-hips 
in  this  part,  where  they  can  get  plenty  of  stuff.  You  often 
find  the  berries  going  rotten  in  springtime." 

So  he  chattered,  scarcely  aware  of  what  he  said,  only 
knowing  he  was  putting  berries  in  the  bosom  of  her  coat, 
while  she  stood  patiently  for  him.  And  she  watched  his 
quick  hands,  so  full  of  life,  and  it  seemed  to  her  she  had 
never  seen  anything  before.  Till  now,  everything  had  been 
indistinct. 

They  came  near  to  the  colliery.  It  stood  quite  still  and 
black  among  the  corn-fields,  its  immense  heap  of  slag  seen 
rising  almost  from  the  oats. 

"What  a  pity  there  is  a  coal-pit  here  where  it  is  so  pretty!" 
said  Clara. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  answered.  "You  see,  I  am  so  used 
to  it  I  should  miss  it.  No;  and  I  like  the  pits  here  and  there. 
I  like  the  rows  of  trucks,  and  the  headstocks,  and  the  steam 
in  the  daytime,  and  the  lights  at  night.  When  I  was  a  boy, 
I  always  thought  a  pillar  of  cloud  by  day  and  a  pillar  of  fire 
by  night  was  a  pit,  with  its  steam,  and  its  lights,  and  the 
burning  bank,— and  I  thought  the  Lord  was  always  at  the 
pit-top." 

As  they  drew  near  home  she  walked  in  silence,  and  seemed 
to  hang  back.  He  pressed  her  fingers  in  his  own.  She  flushed, 
but  gave  no  response. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come  home?"  he  asked. 


}j6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Yes,  I  want  to  come,"  she  replied. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  her  position  in  his  home 
would  be  rather  a  peculiar  and  difficult  one.  To  him  it 
seemed  just  as  if  one  of  his  men  friends  were  going  to  be 
introduced  to  his  mother,  only  nicer. 

The  Morels  lived  in  a  house  in  an  ugly  street  that  rap 
down  a  steep  hill.  The  street  itself  was  hideous.  The  house 
was  rather  superior  to  most.  It  was  old,  grimy,  with  a  big 
bay  window,  and  it  was  semi-detached;  but  it  looked 
gloomy.  Then  Paul  opened  the  door  to  the  garden,  and  all 
was  different.  The  sunny  afternoon  was  there,  like  another 
land.  By  the  path  grew  tansy  and  little  trees.  In  front  of 
the  window  was  a  plot  of  sunny  grass,  with  old  lilacs  round 
it.  And  away  went  the  garden,  with  heaps  of  dishevelled 
chrysanthemums  in  the  sunshine,  down  to  the  sycamore- 
tree,  and  the  field,  and  beyond  one  looked  over  a  few  red- 
roofed  cottages  to  the  hills  with  all  the  glow  of  the  autumn 
afternoon. 

Mrs.  Morel  sat  in  her  rocking-chair,  wearing  her  black 
silk  blouse.  Her  grey-brown  hair  was  taken  smooth  back 
from  her  brow  and  her  high  temples;  her  face  was  rather 
pale.  Clara,  suffering,  followed  Paul  into  the  kitchen.  Mrs. 
Morel  rose.  Clara  thought  her  a  lady,  even  rather  stiff.  The 
young  woman  was  very  nervous.  She  had  almost  a  wistful 
look,  almost  resigned. 

"Mother-Clara,"  said  Paul. 

Mrs.  Morel  held  out  her  hand  and  smiled. 

"He  has  told  me  a  good  deal  about  you,"  she  said. 

The  blood  flamed  in  Clara's  cheek. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  coming,"  she  faltered. 

"I  was  pleased  when  he  said  he  would  bring  you,"  replied 
Mrs.  Morel. 

Paul,  watching,  felt  his  heart  contract  with  pain.  His 
mother  looked  so  small,  and  sallow,  and  done-for  beside  the 
luxuriant  Clara. 

"It's  such  a  pretty  day,  mother!"  he  said.  "And  we  saw 
*  jay." 

His  mother  looked  at  him;  he  had  turned  to  her.  She 


passion  377 

thought  what  a  man  he  seemed,  in  his  dark,  well-made 
clothes.  He  was  pale  and  detached-looking;  it  would  be  hard 
for  any  woman  to  keep  him.  Her  heart  glowed;  then  she 
was  sorry  for  Clara. 

"Perhaps  you'll  leave  your  things  in  the  parlour,"  said 
Mrs.  Morel  nicely  to  the  young  woman. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  replied. 

"Come  on,"  said  Paul,  and  he  led  the  way  into  the  little 
front-room,  with  its  old  piano,  its  mahogany  furniture,  its 
yellowing  marble  mantelpiece.  A  fire  was  burning;  the 
place  was  littered  with  books  and  drawing-boards.  "I  leave 
my  things  lying  about,"  he  said.  "It's  so  much  easier." 

She  loved  his  artist's  paraphernalia,  and  the  books,  and  the 
photos  of  people.  Soon  he  was  telling  her:  this  was  William, 
this  was  William's  young  lady  in  the  evening  dress,  this  was 
Annie  and  her  husband,  this  was  Arthur  and  his  wife  and  the 
baby.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  being  taken  into  the  family.  He 
showed  her  photos,  books,  sketches,  and  they  talked  a  little 
while.  Then  they  returned  to  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Morel  put 
aside  her  book.  Clara  wore  a  blouse  of  fine  silk  chiffon,  with 
narrow  black-and-white  stripes;  her  hair  was  done  simply, 
coiled  on  top  of  her  head.  She  looked  rather  stately  and 
reserved. 

"You  have  gone  to  live  down  Sneinton  Boulevard?"  said 
Mrs.  Morel.  "When  I  was  a  girl— girl,  I  say!— when  I  was  a 
young  woman  we  lived  in  Minerva  Terrace." 

"Oh,  did  you!"  said  Clara.  "I  have  a  friend  in  Number  6." 

And  the  conversation  had  started.  They  talked  Notting- 
ham and  Nottingham  people;  it  interested  them  both.  Clara 
was  still  rather  nervous;  Mrs.  Morel  was  still  somewhat 
on  her  dignity.  She  clipped  her  language  very  clear  and 
precise.  But  they  were  going  to  get  on  well  together,  Paul 
saw. 

Mrs.  Morel  measured  herself  against  the  younger  woman, 
and  found  herself  easily  stronger.  Clara  was  deferential.  She 
knew  Paul's  surprising  regard  for  his  mother,  and  she  had 
dreaded  the  meeting,  expecting  someone  rather  hard  and 
cold.  She  was  surprised  to  find  this  little  interested  woman 


378  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

chatting  with  such  readiness;  and  then  she  felt,  as  she  felt 
with  Paul,  that  she  would  not  care  to  stand  in  Mrs.  Morel's 
way.  There  was  something  so  hard  and  certain  in  his  mother, 
as  if  she  never  had  a  misgiving  in  her  life. 

Presently  Morel  came  down,  ruffled  and  yawning,  from 
his  afternoon  sleep.  He  scratched  his  grizzled  head,  he 
podded  in  his  stocking  feet,  his  waistcoat  hung  open  over 
his  shirt.  He  seemed  incongruous. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Dawes,  father,"  said  Paul. 

Then  Morel  pulled  himself  together.  Clara  saw  Paul's  man- 
ner of  bowing  and  shaking  hands. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Morel.  "I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you— I  am,  I  assure  you.  But  don't  disturb  yourself.  No,  no; 
make  yourself  quite  comfortable,  and  be  very  welcome." 

Clara  was  astonished  at  this  flood  of  hospitality  from  the 
old  collier.  He  was  so  courteous,  so  gallant!  She  thought  him 
most  delightful. 

"And  may  you  have  come  far?"  he  asked. 

"Only  from  Nottingham,"  she  said. 

"From  Nottingham!  Then  you  have  had  a  beautiful  day 
for  your  journey." 

Then  he  strayed  into  the  scullery  to  wash  his  hands  and 
face,  and  from  force  of  habit  came  on  to  the  hearth  with 
the  towel  to  dry  himself. 

At  tea  Clara  felt  the  refinement  and  sang-froid  of  the 
household.  Mrs.  Morel  was  perfectly  at  her  ease.  The  pour- 
ing out  the  tea  and  attending  to  the  people  went  on  uncon- 
sciously, without  interrupting  her  in  her  talk.  There  was 
a  lot  of  room  at  the  oval  table;  the  china  of  dark  blue  willow- 
pattern  looked  pretty  on  the  glossy  cloth.  There  was  a  little 
bowl  of  small,  yellow  chrysanthemums.  Clara  felt  she  com- 
pleted the  circle,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  her.  But  she  was 
rather  afraid  of  the  self-possession  of  the  Morels,  father  and 
all.  She  took  their  tone;  there  was  a  feeling  of  balance.  It 
was  a  cool,  clear  atmosphere,  where  everyone  was  himself, 
and  in  harmony.  Clara  enjoyed  it,  but  there  was  a  fear  deep 
at  the  bottom  of  her. 


passion  379 

Paul  cleared  the  table  whilst  his  mother  and  Clara  talked. 
Clara  was  conscious  of  his  quick,  vigorous  body  as  it  came 
and  went,  seeming  blown  quickly  by  a  wind  at  its  work. 
It  was  almost  like  the  hither  and  thither  of  a  leaf  that  comes 
unexpected.  Most  of  herself  went  with  him.  By  the  way  she 
leaned  forward,  as  if  listening,  Mrs.  Morel  could  see  she 
was  possessed  elsewhere  as  she  talked,,  and  again  the  elder 
woman  was  sorry  for  her. 

Having  finished,  he  strolled  down  the  garden,  leaving  the 
two  women  to  talk.  It  was  a  hazy,  sunny  afternoon,  mild  and 
soft.  Clara  glanced  through  the  window  after  him  as  he 
loitered  among  the  chrysanthemums.  She  felt  as  if  some- 
thing almost  tangible  fastened  her  to  him;  yet  he  seemed 
so  easy  in  his  graceful,  indolent  movement,  so  detached  as 
he  tied  up  the  too-heavy  flower-branches  to  their  stakes, 
that  she  wanted  to  shriek  in  her  helplessness. 

Mrs.  Morel  rose. 

"You  will  let  me  help  you  wash  up,"  said  Clara. 
"Eh,  there  are  so  few,  it  will  only  take  me  a  minute,"  said 
the  other. 

Clara,  however,  dried  the  tea-things,  and  was  glad  to  be 
on  such  good  terms  with  his  mother;  but  it  was  torture  not 
to  be  able  to  follow  him  down  the  garden.  At  last  she  al- 
lowed herself  to  go;  she  felt  as  if  a  rope  were  taken  off  her 
ankle. 

The  afternoon  was  golden  over  the  hills  of  Derbyshire. 
He  stood  across  in  the  other  garden,  beside  a  bush  of  pale 
Michaelmas  daisies,  watching  the  last  bees  crawl  into  the 
hive.  Hearing  her  coming,  he  turned  to  her  with  an  easy  mo- 
tion, saying: 

"It's  the  end  of  the  run  with  these  chaps." 

Clara  stood  near  him.  Over  the  low  red  wall  in  front 
was  the  country  and  the  far-off  hills,  all  golden  dim. 

At  that  moment  Miriam  was  entering  through  the  garden- 
door.  She  saw  Clara  go  up  to  him,  saw  him  turn,  and  saw 
them  come  to  rest  together.  Something  in  their  perfect  isola- 
tion together  made  her  know  that  it  was  accomplished  be- 


380  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

tween  them,  that  they  were,  as  she  put  it,  married.  She 
walked  very  slowly  down  the  cinder-track  of  the  long 
garden. 

Clara  had  pulled  a  button  from  a  hollyhock  spire,  and 
was  breaking  it  to  get  the  seeds.  Above  her  bowed  head  the 
pink  flowers  stared,  as  if  defending  her.  The  last  bees  were 
falling  down  to  the  hive. 

"Count  your  money,"  laughed  Paul,  as  she  broke  the  flat 
seeds  one  by  one  from  the  roll  of  coin.  She  looked  at  him. 

"I'm  well  off,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"How  much?  Pf!"  He  snapped  his  fingers.  "Can  I  turn 
them  into  gold?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  she  laughed. 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  laughing.  At  that 
moment  they  became  aware  of  Miriam.  There  was  a  click, 
and  everything  had  altered. 

"Hello,  Miriam!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  said  you'd  come!" 

"Yes.  Had  you  forgotten?" 

She  shook  hands  with  Clara,  saying: 

"It  seems  strange  to  see  you  here." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other;  "it  seems  strange  to  be  here." 

There  was  a  hesitation. 

"It  is  pretty,  isn't  it?"  said  Miriam. 

"I  like  it  very  much,"  replied  Clara. 

Then  Miriam  realized  that  Clara  was  accepted  as  she  had 
never  been. 

"Have  you  come  down  alone?"  asked  Paul. 

"Yes;  I  went  to  Agatha's  to  tea.  We  are  going  to  chapel. 
I  only  called  in  for  a  moment  to  see  Clara." 

"You  should  have  come  in  here  to  tea,"  he  said. 

Miriam  laughed  shortly,  and  Clara  turned  impatiently 
aside. 

"Do  you  like  the  chrysanthemums?"  he  asked. 
"Yes;  they  are  very  fine,"  replied  Miriam. 
"Which  sort  do  you  like  best?"  he  asked. 
"I  don't  know.  The  bronze,  I  think." 
"I  don't  think  you've  seen  all  the  sorts.  Come  and  look, 
Come  and  see  which  are  your  favourites,  Clara." 


PASSION  381 

He  led  the  two  women  back  to  his  own  garden,  where  the 
towzled  bushes  of  flowers  of  all  colours  stood  raggedly 
along  the  path  down  to  the  field.  The  situation  did  not  em- 
barrass him,  to  his  knowledge. 

"Look,  Miriam;  these  are  the  white  ones  that  came  from 
your  garden.  They  aren't  so  fine  here,  are  they?" 

"No,"  said  Miriam. 

"But  they're  harder.  You're  so  sheltered;  things  grow 
big  and  tender,  and  then  die.  These  little  yellow  ones  I  like* 
Will  vou  have  some?" 

Wfiile  they  were  out  there  the  bells  began  to  ring  in  the 
church,  sounding  loud  across  the  town  and  the  field.  Miriam 
looked  at  the  tower,  proud  among  the  clustering  roofs,  and 
remembered  the  sketches  he  had  brought  her.  It  had  been 
different  then,  but  he  had  not  left  her  even  yet.  She  asked 
him  for  a  book  to  read.  He  ran  indoors. 

"What!  is  that  Miriam?"  asked  his  mother  coldly. 

"Yes;  she  said  she'd  call  and  see  Clara." 

"You  told  her,  then?"  came  the  sarcastic  answer. 

"Yes;  why  shouldn't  I?" 

"There's  certainly  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't,"  said 
Mrs.  Morel,  and  she  returned  to  her  book.  He  winced  from 
his  mother's  irony,  frowned  irritably,  thinking:  "Why  can't 
I  do  as  I  like?" 

"You've  not  seen  Mrs.  Morel  before?"  Miriam  was  saying 
to  Clara. 

"No;  but  she's  so  nice!" 

"Yes,"  said  Miriam,  dropping  her  head;  "in  some  ways 
she's  very  fine." 
"I  should  think  so." 
"Had  Paul  told  you  much  about  her?" 
"He  had  talked  a  good  deal." 
"Ha!" 

There  was  silence  until  he  returned  with  the  book. 
"When  will  you  want  it  back?"  Miriam  asked. 
"When  you  like,"  he  answered. 

Clara  turned  to  go  indoors,  whilst  he  accompanied  Miriam 
to  the  gate. 


382  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"When  will  you  come  up  to  Willey  Farm?"  the  latter 
asked. 

"I  couldn't  say,"  replied  Clara. 

"Mother  asked  me  to  say  she'd  be  pleased  to  see  you  any 
time,  if  you  cared  to  come." 

"Thank  you;  I  should  like  to,  but  I  can't  say  when." 

"Oh,  very  well!"  exclaimed  Miriam  rather  bitterly,  turn- 
ing away. 

She  went  down  the  path  with  her  mouth  to  the  flowers  he 
had  given  her. 

"You're  sure  you  won't  come  in?"  he  said. 

"No,  thanks." 

"We  are  going  to  chapel." 

"Ha,  I  shall  see  you  then!"  Miriam  was  very  bitter. 
"Yes." 

They  parted.  He  felt  guilty  towards  her.  She  was  bitter, 
and  she  scorned  him.  He  still  belonged  to  herself,  she  be- 
lieved; yet  he  could  have  Clara,  take  her  home,  sit  with  her 
next  his  mother  in  chapel,  give  her  the  same  hymn-book  he 
had  given  herself  years  before.  She  heard  him  running 
quickly  indoors. 

But  he  did  not  go  straight  in.  Halting  on  the  plot  of  grass, 
he  heard  his  mother's  voice,  then  Clara's  answer: 

"What  I  hate  is  the  bloodhound  quality  in  Miriam." 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother  quickly,  "yes;  doesrtt  it  make  you 
hate  her,  now!" 

His  heart  went  hot,  and  he  was  angry  with  them  for  talk- 
ing about  the  girl.  What  right  had  they  to  say  that?  Some- 
thing in  the  speech  itself  stung  him  into  a  flame  of  hate 
against  Miriam.  Then  his  own  heart  rebelled  furiously  at 
Clara's  taking  the  liberty  of  speaking  so  about  Miriam.  After 
all,  the  girl  was  the  better  woman  of  the  two,  he  thought,  if 
it  came  to  goodness.  He  went  indoors.  His  mother  looked 
excited.  She  was  beating  with  her  hand  rhythmically  on  the 
sofa-arm,  as  women  do  who  are  wearing  out.  He  could  never 
bear  to  see  the  movement.  There  was  a  silence;  then  he  began 
to  talk. 

In  chapel  Miriam  saw  him  find  the  place  in  the  hymn- 


passiu*;  383 

book  for  Clara,  in  exactly  the  same  way  as  he  used  for  her- 
self. And  during  the  sermon  he  could  see  the  girl  across  the 
chapel,  her  hat  throwing  a  dark  shadow  over  her  face.  What 
did  she  think,  seeing  Clara  with  him?  He  did  not  stop  to 
consider.  He  felt  himself  cruel  towards  Miriam. 

After  chapel  he  went  over  Pentrich  with  Clara.  It  was  a 
dark  autumn  night.  They  had  said  good-bye  to  Miriam, 
and  his  heart  had  smitten  him  as  he  left  the  girl  alone.  "But 
it  serves  her  right,"  he  said  inside  himself,  and  it  almost  gave 
him  pleasure  to  go  off  under  her  eyes  with  this  other  hand- 
some woman. 

There  was  a  scent  of  damp  leaves  in  the  darkness.  Clara's 
hand  lay  warm  and  inert  in  his  own  as  they  walked.  He  was 
full  of  conflict.  The  battle  that  raged  inside  him  made  him 
feel  desperate. 

Up  Pentrich  Hill  Clara  leaned  against  him  as  he  went. 
He  slid  his  arm  round  her  waist.  Feeling  the  strong  motion 
of  her  body  under  his  arm  as  she  walked,  the  tightness  in 
his  chest  because  of  Miriam  relaxed,  and  the  hot  blood 
bathed  him.  He  held  her  closer  and  closer. 

Then:  "You  still  keep  on  with  Miriam,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Only  talk.  There  never  was  a  great  deal  more  than  talk 
between  us,"  he  said  bitterly. 

"Your  mother  doesn't  care  for  her,"  said  Clara. 

"No,  or  I  might  have  married  her.  But  it's  all  up,  really!  * 

Suddenly  his  voice  went  passionate  with  hate. 

"If  I  was  with  her  now,  we  should  be  jawing  about  the 
'Christian  Mystery,'  or  some  such  tack.  Thank  God,  I'm 
not!" 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  time. 
"But  you  can't  really  give  her  up,"  said  Clara. 
"I  don't  give  her  up,  because  there's  nothing  to  give,,c 
he  said. 

"There  is  for  her." 

"I  don't  know  why  she  and  I  shouldn't  be  friends  as  long 
as  we  live,"  he  said.  "But  it'll  only  be  friends." 

Clara  drew  away  from  him,  leaning  away  from  contact 
with  him. 


\ 


384  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"What  are  you  drawing  away  for?"  he  asked. 
She  did  not  answer,  but  drew  farther  from  him. 
"Why  do  you  want  to  walk  alone? "  he  asked. 
Still  there  was  no  answer.  She  walked  resentfully,  hanging 
her  head. 

"Because  I  said  I  would  be  friends  with  Miriam!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

She  would  not  answer  him  anything. 

"I  tell  you  it's  only  words  that  go  between  us,"  he  per- 
sisted, trying  to  take  her  again. 

She  resisted.  Suddenly  he  strode  across  in  front  of  her, 
barring  her  way. 

"Damn  it!"  he  said.  "What  do  you  want  now?" 

"You'd  better  run  after  Miriam,"  mocked  Clara. 

The  blood  flamed  up  in  him.  He  stood  showing  his  teeth. 
She  drooped  sulkily.  The  lane  was  dark,  quite  lonely.  He 
suddenly  caught  her  in  his  arms,  stretched  forward,  and  put 
his  mouth  on  her  face  in  a  kiss  of  rage.  She  turned  frantically 
to  avoid  him.  He  held  her  fast.  Hard  and  relentless  his  mouth 
came  for  her.  Her  breasts  hurt  against  the  wall  of  his  chest. 
Helpless,  she  went  loose  in  his  arms,  and  he  kissed  her,  and 
kissed  her. 

He  heard  people  coming  down  the  hill. 

"Stand  up!  stand  up!"  he  said  thickly,  gripping  her  arm 
till  it  hurt.  If  he  had  let  go,  she  would  have  sunk  to  the 
ground. 

She  sighed  and  walked  dizzily  beside  him.  They  went  on 
in  silence. 

"We  will  go  over  the  fields,"  he  said;  and  then  she  woke 
up. 

But  she  let  herself  be  helped  over  the  stile,  and  she  walked 
in  silence  with  him  over  the  first  dark  field.  It  was  the  way 
to  Nottingham  and  to  the  station,  she  knew.  He  seemed  to 
be  looking  about.  They  came  out  on  a  bare  hill-top  where 
stood  the  dark  figure  of  the  ruined  windmill.  There  he 
halted.  They  stood  together  high  up  in  the  darkness,  looking 
at  the  lights  scattered  on  the  night  before  them,  handfuls  of 


PASSION  385 

glittering  points,  villages  lying  high  and  low  on  the  dark, 
here  and  there. 

"Like  treading  among  the  stars,"  he  said,  with  a  quaky 
laugh. 

Then  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  held  her  fast.  She  moved 
aside  her  mouth  to  ask,  dogged  and  low: 
"What  time  is  it?" 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  pleaded  thickly. 
"Yes,  it  does— yes!  I  must  go!" 
"It's  early  yet,"  he  said. 
"What  time  is  it?"  she  insisted. 

All  round  lay  the  black  night,  speckled  and  spangled 
with  lights. 

"I  don't  know." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  chest,  feeling  for  his  watch.  He 
felt  his  joints  fuse  into  fire.  She  groped  in  his  waist-coat 
pocket,  while  he  stood  panting.  In  the  darkness  she  could 
see  the  round,  pale  face  of  the  watch,  but  not  the  figures. 
She  stooped  over  it.  He  was  panting  till  he  could  take  her 
in  his  arms  again. 

"I  can't  see,"  she  said. 

"Then  don't  bother." 

"Yes;  I'm  going!"  she  said,  turning  away. 

"Wait!  I'll  look!"  But  he  could  not  see.  "I'll  strike  a 
match." 

He  secretly  hoped  it  was  too  late  to  catch  the  train.  She 
saw  the  glowing  lantern  of  his  hands  as  he  cradled  the  light; 
then  his  face  lit  up,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  watch.  Instantly  all 
was  dark  again.  All  was  black  before  her  eyes;  only  a  glow- 
ing match  was  red  near  her  feet.  Where  was  he? 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  afraid. 

"You  can't  do  it,"  his  voice  answered  out  of  the  darkness. 

There  was  a  pause.  She  felt  in  his  power.  She  had  heard 
the  ring  in  his  voice.  It  frightened  her. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked,  quiet,  definite,  hopeless. 

"Two  minutes  to  nine,"  he  replied,  telling  the  truth  with 
a  struggle. 


f 


386  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"And  can  I  get  from  here  to  the  station  in  fourteen  min- 
utes?" 

"No.  At  any  rate  — " 

She  could  distinguish  his  dark  form  again  a  yard  or  so 
away.  She  wanted  to  escape. 

"But  can't  I  do  it?"  she  pleaded. 

"If  you  hurry,"  he  said  brusquely.  "But  you  could  easily 
walk  it,  Clara;  it's  only  seven  miles  to  the  tram.  I'll  come  with 
you." 

"No;  I  want  to  catch  the  train." 
"But  why?" 

"I  do— I  want  to  catch  the  train." 
Suddenly  his  voice  altered. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  dry  and  hard.  "Come  along,  then." 

And  he  plunged  ahead  into  the  darkness.  She  ran  after 
him,  wanting  to  cry.  Now  he  was  hard  and  cruel  to  her. 
She  ran  over  the  rough,  dark  fields  behind  him,  out  of 
breath,  ready  to  drop.  But  the  double  row  of  lights  at  the 
station  drew  nearer.  Suddenly: 

"There  she  is!"  he  cried,  breaking  into  a  run. 

There  was  a  faint  rattling  noise.  Away  to  the  right  the 
train,  like  a  luminous  caterpillar,  was  threading  across  the 
night.  The  rattling  ceased. 

"She's  over  the  viaduct.  You'll  just  do  it." 

Clara  ran,  quite  out  of  breath,  and  fell  at  last  into  the  train. 
The  whistle  blew.  He  was  gone.  Gone!— and  she  was  in  a 
carriage  full  of  people.  She  felt  the  cruelty  of  it. 

He  turned  round  and  plunged  home.  Before  he  knew 
where  he  was  he  was  in  the  kitchen  at  home.  He  was  very 
pale.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  dangerous-looking,  as  if  he 
were  drunk.  His  mother  looked  at  him. 

"Well,  I  must  say  your  boots  are  in  a  nice  state!"  she 
said.  * 

He  looked  at  his  feet.  Then  he  took  off  his  overcoat.  His 
mother  wondered  if  he  were  drunk. 

"She  caught  the  train,  then?"  she  said. 

"Yes." 


PASSION  387 

"I  hope  her  feet  weren't  so  filthy.  Where  on  earth  you 
dragged  her  I  don't  know!" 

He  was  silent  and  motionless  for  some  time. 

"Did  you  like  her?"  he  asked  grudgingly  at  last. 

"Yes,  I  liked  her.  But  you'll  tire  of  her,  my  son;  you  know 
you  will." 

He  did  not  answer.  She  noticed  how  he  laboured  in  his 
breathing. 

"Have  you  been  running?"  she  asked. 
"We  had  to  run  for  the  train." 

"You'll  go  and  knock  yourself  up.  You'd  better  drink 
hot  milk." 

It  was  as  good  a  stimulant  as  he  could  have,  but  he  refused 
and  went  to  bed.  There  he  lay  face  down  on  the  counter- 
pane, and  shed  tears  of  rage  and  pain.  There  was  a  physical 
pain  that  made  him  bite  his  lips  till  they  bled,  and  the  chaos 
inside  him  left  him  unable  to  think,  almost  to  feel. 

"This  is  how  she  serves  me,  is  it?"  he  said  in  his  heart 
over  and  over,  pressing  his  face  in  the  quilt.  And  he  hated 
her.  Again  he  went  over  the  scene,  and  again  he  hated 
her. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  new  aloofness  about  him.  Clara 
was  very  gentle,  almost  loving.  But  he  treated  her  distantly, 
with  a  touch  of  contempt.  She  sighed,  continuing  to  be 
gentle.  He  came  round. 

One  evening  of  that  week  Sarah  Bernhardt  was  at  the 
Theatre  Royal  in  Nottingham,  giving  La  Dame  aux  Came- 
lias.  Paul  wanted  to  see  this  old  and  famous  actress,  and  he 
asked  Clara  to  accompany  him.  He  told  his  mother  to  leave 
the  key  in  the  window  for  him. 

"Shall  I  book  seats?"  he  asked  of  Clara. 

"Yes.  And  put  on  an  evening  suit,  will  you?  I've  never 
seen  you  in  it." 

"But,  good  Lord,  Clara!  Think  of  me  in  evening  suit  at 
the  theatre!"  he  remonstrated. 

"Would  you  rather  not?"  she  asked. 

"I  will  if  you  want  me  to;  but  I  s'll  feel  a  fool." 


388  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

She  laughed  at  him. 

"Then  feel  a  fool  for  my  sake,  once,  won't  you?" 
The  request  made  his  blood  flush  up. 
"I  suppose  I  s'll  have  to." 

"What  are  you  taking  a  suit-case  for?"  his  mother  asked. 

He  blushed  furiously. 

"Clara  asked  me,"  he  said. 

"And  what  seats  are  you  going  in?" 

"Circle— three-and-six  each!" 

"Well,  I'm  sure!"  exclaimed  his  mother  sarcastically. 

"It's  only  once  in  the  bluest  of  blue  moons,"  he  said. 

He  dressed  at  Jordan's,  put  on  an  overcoat  and  a  cap,  and 
met  Clara  in  a  cafe.  She  was  with  one  of  her  suffragette 
friends.  She  wore  an  old  long  coat,  which  did  not  suit  her, 
and  had  a  little  wrap  over  her  head,  which  he  hated.  The 
three  went  to  the  theatre  together. 

Clara  took  off  her  coat  on  the  stairs,  and  he  discovered 
she  was  in  a  sort  of  semi-evening  dress,  that  left  her  arms 
and  neck  and  part  of  her  breast  bare.  Her  hair  was  done 
fashionably.  The  dress,  a  simple  thing  of  green  crape,  suited 
her.  She  looked  quite  grand,  he  thought.  He  could  see  her 
figure  inside  the  frock,  as  if  that  were  wrapped  closely  round 
her.  The  firmness  and  the  softness  of  her  upright  body 
could  almost  be  felt  as  he  looked  at  her.  He  clenched  his 
fists. 

And  he  was  to  sit  all  the  evening  beside  her  beautiful 
naked  arm,  watching  the  strong  throat  rise  from  the  strong 
chest,  watching  the  breasts  under  the  green  stuff,  the  curve 
of  her  limbs  in  the  tight  dress.  Something  in  him  hated  her 
again  for  submitting  him  to  this  torture  of  nearness.  And  he 
loved  her  as  she  balanced  her  head  and  stared  straight  in 
front  of  her,  pouting,  wistful,  immobile,  as  if  she  yielded 
herself  to  her  fate  because  it  was  too  strong  for  her.  She 
could  not  help  herself;  she  was  in  the  grip  of  something  big- 
ger than  herself.  A  kind  of  eternal  look  about  her,  as  if  she 
were  a  wistful  sphinx,  made  it  necessary  for  him  to'  kiss  her. 
He  dropped  his  programme,  and  crouched  down  on  the 
floor  to  get  it,  so  that  he  could  kiss  her  hand  and  wrist.  Her 


PASSION  389 

beauty  was  a  torture  to  him.  She  sat  immobile.  Only,  when 
the  lights  went  down,  she  sank  a  little  against  him,  and  he 
caressed  her  hand  and  arm  with  his  fingers.  He  could  smell 
her  faint  perfume.  All  the  time  his  blood  kept  sweeping  up 
in  great  white-hot  waves  that  killed  his  consciousness  mo- 
mentarily. 

The  drama  continued.  He  saw  it  all  in  the  distance,  going 
on  somewhere;  he  did  not  know  where,  but  it  seemed  far 
away  inside  him.  He  was  Clara's  white  heavy  arms,  her 
throat,  her  moving  bosom.  That  seemed  to  be  himself.  Then 
away  somewhere  the  play  went  on,  and  he  was  identified 
with  that  also.  There  was  no  himself.  The  grey  and  black 
eyes  of  Clara,  her  bosom  coming  down  on  him,  her  arm 
that  he  held  gripped  between  his  hands,  were  all  that  existed. 
Then  he  felt  himself  small  and  helpless,  her  towering  in  her 
force  above  him. 

Only  the  intervals,  when  the  lights  came  up,  hurt  him  ex- 
pressibly.  He  wanted  to  run  anywhere,  so  long  as  it  would 
be  dark  again.  In  a  maze,  he  wandered  out  for  a  drink.  Then 
the  lights  were  out,  and  the  strange,  insane  reality  of  Clara 
and  the  drama  took  hold  of  him  again. 

The  play  went  on.  But  he  was  obsessed  by  the  desire  to 
kiss  the  tiny  blue  vein  that  nestled  in  the  bend  of  her  arm. 
He  could  feel  it.  His  whole  life  seemed  suspended  till  he  had 
put  his  lips  there.  It  must  be  done.  And  the  other  people!  At 
last  he  bent  quickly  forward  and  touched  it  with  his  lips.  His 
moustache  brushed  the  sensitive  flesh.  Clara  shivered,  drew 
away  her  arm. 

When  all  was  over,  the  lights  up,  the  people  clapping,  he 
came  to  himself  and  looked  at  his  watch.  His  train  was 
gone. 

"I  sTl  have  to  walk  home!"  he  said. 

Clara  looked  at  him. 
.  "Is  it  too  late?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded.  Then  he  helped  her  on  with  her  coat. 

"I  love  you!  You  look  beautiful  in  that  dress,"  he  mur- 
mured over  her  shoulder,  among  the  throng  of  bustling 
people. 


390  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

She  remained  quiet.  Together  they  went  out  of  the  thea- 
tre. He  saw  the  cabs  waiting,  the  people  passing.  It  seemed 
he  met  a  pair  of  brown  eyes  which  hated  him.  But  he  did 
not  know.  He  and  Clara  turned  away,  mechanically  taking 
the  direction  to  the  station. 

The  train  had  gone.  He  would  have  to  walk  the  ten  miles 
home. 

"It  doesn't  matter,''  he  said.  "I  shall  enjoy  it." 
"Won't  you,"  she  said,  flushing,  "come  home  for  the 
night?  I  can  sleep  with  mother." 
He  looked  at  her.  Their  eyes  met. 
"What  will  your  mother  say?"  he  asked. 
"She  won't  mind." 
"You're  sure?" 
"Quite!" 
"Shall  I  come?" 
"If  you  will." 
"Very  well." 

And  they  turned  away.  At  the  first  stopping-place  they 
took  the  car.  The  wind  blew  fresh  in  their  faces.  The  town 
was  dark;  the  tram  tipped  in  its  haste.  He  sat  with  her  hand 
fast  in  his. 

"Will  your  mother  be  gone  to  bed?"  he  asked. 
"She  may  be.  I  hope  not." 

They  hurried  along  the  silent,  dark  little  street,  the  only 
people  out  of  doors.  Clara  quickly  entered  the  house.  He 
hesitated. 

"Come  in,"  she  said. 

He  leaped  up  the  step  and  was  in  the  room.  Her  mother 
appeared  in  the  inner  doorway,  large  and  hostile. 

"Who  have  you  got  there?"  she  asked. 

"It's  Mr.  Morel;  he  has  missed  his  train.  I  thought  we 
might  put  him  up  for  the  night,  and  save  him  a  ten-mile 
walk." 

"H'm!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Radford.  "That's  your  look-out! 
If  you've  invited  him,  he's  very  welcome  as  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned. You  keep  the  house!" 

"If  you  don't  like  me,  I'll  go  away  again,"  he  said. 


passion  39  r 

"Nay,  nay,  you  needn't!  Come  along  in!  I  dunno  what* 
you'll  think  of  the  supper  I'd  got  her." 

It  was  a  little  dish  of  chip  potatoes  and  a  piece  of  bacon. 
The  table  was  roughly  laid  for  one. 

"You  can  have  some  more  bacon,"  continued  Mrs.  Rad- 
ford. "More  chips  you  can't  have." 

"It's  a  shame  to  bother  you,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  don't  you  be  apologetic!  It  doesn't  do  wi'  me!  You 
treated  her  to  the  theatre,  didn't  you?"  There  was  a  sarcasm 
in  the  last  question. 

"Well?"  laughed  Paul  uncomfortably. 

"Well,  and  what's  an  inch  of  bacon!  Take  your  coat 
off." 

The  big,  straight-standing  woman  was  trying  to  estimate 
the  situation.  She  moved  about  the  cupboard.  Clara  took 
his  coat.  The  room  was  very  warm  and  cozy  in  the  lamp- 
light. 

"My  sirs!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Radford;  "but  you  two's  a  pair 
of  bright  beauties,  I  must  say!  What's  all  that  get-up  for?" 

"I  believe  we  don't  know,"  he  said,  feeling  a  victim. 

"There  isn't  room  in  this  house  for  two  such  bobby- 
dazzlers,  if  you  fly  your  kites  that  high!"  she  rallied  them 
It  was  a  nasty  thrust. 

He  in  his  dinner  jacket,  and  Clara  in  her  green  dress  and 
bare  arms,  were  confused.  They  felt  they  must  shelter  each 
other  in  that  little  kitchen. 

"And  look  at  that  blossom!"  continued  Mrs.  Radford, 
pointing  to  Clara.  "What  does  she  reckon  she  did  it  for?" 

Paul  looked  at  Clara.  She  was  rosy;  her  neck  was  warm 
with  blushes.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 

"You  like  to  see  it,  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

The  mother  had  them  in  her  power.  All  the  time  his 
heart  was  beating  hard,  and  he  was  tight  with  anxiety.  But 
he  would  fight  her. 

"Me  like  to  see  it!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman.  "What 
should  I  like  to  see  her  make  a  fool  of  herself  for?" 

"I've  seen  people  look  bigger  fools,"  he  said.  Clara  was 
under  his  protection  now. 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Oh,  ay!  and  when  was  that?"  came  the  sarcastic  re- 
joinder. 

"When  they  made  frights  of  themselves,"  he  answered, 

Mrs.  Radford,  large  and  threatening,  stood  suspended  on 
the  hearthrug,  holding  her  fork. 

"They're  fools  either  road,"  she  answered  at  length,  turn- 
ing to  the  Dutch  oven. 

"No,"  he  said,  fighting  stoutly.  "Folk  ought  to  look  as 
well  as  they  can." 

"And  do  you  call  that  looking  nice!"  cried  the  mother, 
pointing  a  scornful  fork  at  Clara.  "That— that  looks  as  if  it 
wasn't  properly  dressed!" 

"I  believe  youlre  jealous  that  you  can't  swank  as  well," 
he  said,  laughing. 

"Me!  I  could  have  worn  evening  dress  with  anybody,  if 
I'd  wanted  to!"  came  the  scornful  answer. 

"And  why  didn't  you  want  to?"  he  asked  pertinently.  "Or 
did  you  wear  it?" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Mrs.  Radford  readjusted  the 
bacon  in  the  Dutch  oven.  His  heart  beat  fast,  for  fear  he  had 
offended  her. 

"Me!"  she  exclaimed  at  last.  "No,  I  didn't!  And  when  I 
was  in  service,  I  knew  as  soon  as  one  of  the  maids  came  out 
;n  bare  shoulders  what  sort  she  was,  going  to  her  sixpenny 
hop!" 

"Were  you  too  good  to  go  to  a  sixpenny  hop?"  he  said. 

Clara  sat  with  bowed  head.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  glit- 
tering. Mrs.  Radford  took  the  Dutch  oven  from  the  fire,  and 
stood  near  him,  putting  bits  of  bacon  on  his  plate. 

"'There's  a  nice  crozzly  bit!"  she  said. 

"Don't  give  me  the  best!"  he  said. 

"She's  got  what  she  wants,"  was  the  answer. 

There  was  a  sort  of  scornful  forbearance  in  the  woman's 
tone  that  made  Paul  know -she  was  mollified. 

"But  do  have  some!"  he  said  to  Clara. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  grey  eyes,  humiliated  and 
lonely. 

"No,  thanks!"  she  said. 


passion  393 

*   "Why  won't  you?"  he  answered,  caressively. 
.  The  blood  was  beating  up  like  fire  in  his  veins.  Mrs.  Rad- 
ford sat  down  again,  large  and  impressive  and  aloof.  He 
left  Clara  altogether  to  attend  to  the  mother. 

"They  say  Sarah  Bernhardt's  fifty,"  he  said. 

"Fifty!  She's -turned  sixty!"  came  the  scornful  answer. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you'd  never  think  it!  She  made  me  want 
to  howl  even  now." 

"I  should  like  to  see  myself  howling  at  that  bad  old  bag- 
gage!" said  Mrs.  Radford.  "It's  time  she  began  to  think  her- 
self a  grandmother,  not  a  shrieking  catamaran  " 

He  laughed. 

"A  catamaran  is  a  boat  the  Malays  use,"  he  said. 
"And  it's  a  word  as  /  use,"  she  retorted. 
"My  mother  does  sometimes,  and  it's  no  good  my  telling 
her,"  he  said. 

"I  s'd  think  she  boxes  your  ears,"  said  Mrs.  Radford,  good- 
humouredly. 

"She'd  like  to,  and  she  says  she  will,  so  I  give  her  a  little 
stool  to  stand  on." 

"That's  the  worst  of  my  mother,"  said  Clara.  "She  never 
wants  a  stool  for  anything." 

"But  she  often  can't  touch  that  lady  with  a  long  prop," 
retorted  Mrs.  Radford  to  Paul. 

"I  s'd  think  she  doesn't  want  touching  with  a  prop,"  he 
laughed.  "/  shouldn't." 

"It  might  do  the  pair  of  you  good  to  give  you  a  crack 
on  the  head  with  one,"  said  the  mother,  laughing  suddenly. 

"Why  are  you  so  vindictive  towards  me?"  he  said.  "I've 
not  stolen  anything  from  you." 

"No;  I'll  watch  that,"  laughed  the  older  woman. 

Soon  the  supper  was  finished.  Mrs.  Radford  sat  guard  in 
her  chair.  Paul  lit  a  cigarette.  Clara  went  upstairs,  returning 
with  a  sleeping-suit,  which  she  spread  on  the  fender  to  air. 

"Why,  I'd  forgot  all  about  them\"  said  Mrs.  Radford, 
"Where  have  they  sprung  from?" 

"Out  of  my  drawer." 

"H'm!  You  bought  'em  for  Baxter,  an'  he  wouldn't  wear 


|94  S0NS  AND  LOVERS 

em,  would  he^"— laughing.  "Said  he  reckoned  to  do  wi'out 
trousers  i'  bed."  She  turned  confidentially  to  Paul,  saying; 
'He  couldn't  bear  "em,  them  pyjama  things." 

The  young  man  sat  making  rings  of  smoke. 

"Well,  it's  everyone  to  his  taste,"  he  laughed. 

Then  followed  a  little  discussion  of  the  merits  of  pyjamas. 

"My  mother  loves  me  in  them,"  he  said.  "She  says  I'm  a 
jderrot." 

"I  can  imagine  they'd  suit  you,"  said  Mrs.  Radford. 

After  a  while  he  glanced  at  the  little  clock  that  was  ticking 
»>n  the  mantelpiece.  It  was  half-past  twelve. 

"It  is  funny,"  he  said,  "but  it  takes  hours  to  settle  down  to 
ieep  after  the  theatre." 

"It's  about  time  you  did,"  said  Mrs.  Radford,  clearing 
•he  table. 

"Are  you  tired?"  he  asked  of  Clara. 
"Not  the  least  bit,"  she  answered,  avoiding  his  eyes. 
"Shall  we  have  a  game  at  cribbage?"  he  said. 
"I've  forgotten  it." 

"Well,  I'll  teach  you  again.  May  we  play  crib,  Mrs.  Rad- 
ford?" he  asked. 

"You'll  please  yourselves,"  she  said;  "but  it's  pretty  late." 

"A  game  or  so  will  make  us  sleepy,"  he  answered. 

Clara  brought  the  cards,  and  sat  spinning  her  wedding- 
ring  whilst  he  shuffled  them.  Mrs.  Radford  was  washing  up 
in  the  scullery.  As  it  grew  later  Paul  felt  the  situation  getting 
more  and  more  tense. 

"Fifteen  two,  fifteen  four,  fifteen  six,  and  two's  eight  !" 

The  clock  struck  one.  Still  the  game  continued.  Mrs. 
Radford  had  done  all  the  little  jobs  preparatory  to  going  to 
bed,  hixd  locked  the  door  and  filled  the  kettle.  Still  Paul  went 
on  dealing  and  counting.  He  was  obsessed  by  Clara's  arms 
and  throat.  He  believed  he  could  see  where  the  division  was 
just  beginning  for  her  breasts.  He  could  not  leave  her.  She 
watched  his  hands,  and  felt  her  joints  melt  as  they  moved 
quickly.  She  was  so  near;  it  was  almost  as  if  he  touched 
her,  and  yet  not  quite.  His  mettle  was  roused.  He  hated  Mrs. 
Radford.  She  sat  on,  nearly  dropping  asleep,  but  determined 


passion  395 

and  obstinate  in  her  chair.  Paul  glanced  at  her,  then  at  Clara 
She  met  his  eyes,  that  were  angry,  mocking,  and  hard  as 
steel.  Her  own  answered  him  in  shame.  He  knew  she,  at  any 
rate,  was  of  his  mind.  He  played  on. 

At  last  Mrs.Radford  roused  herself  stiffly,  and  said: 

"Isn't  it  nigh  on  time  you  two  was  thinking  o'  bed?" 

Paul  played  on  without  answering.  He  hated  her  suffix 
ciently  to  murder  her. 

"Half  a  minute!"  he  said. 

The  elder  woman  rose  and  sailed  stubbornly  into  the  scul- 
lery, returning  with  his  candle,  which  she  put  on  the  man- 
telpiece. Then  she  sat  down  again.  The  hatred  of  her  went 
so  hot  down  his  veins,  he  dropped  his  cards. 

"We'll  stop,  then,"  he  said,  but  his  voice  was  still  a  chal- 
lenge. 

Clara  saw  his  mouth  shut  hard.  Again  he  glanced  at  her 
It  seemed  like  an  agreement.  She  bent  over  the  cards,  cough- 
ing, to  clear  her  throat. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you've  finished,"  said  Mrs.  Radford. 
"Here,  take  your  things"— she  thrust  the  warm  suit  in  his 
hand— "and  this  is  your  candle.  Your  room's  over  this;  there's 
only  two,  so  you  can't  go  far  wrong.  Well,  good-night.  I 
hope  you'll  rest  well." 

"I'm  sure  I  shall;  I  always  do,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  and  so  you  ought  at  your  age,"  she  replied. 

He  bade  good-night  to  Clara,  and  went.  The  twisting  stairs 
of  white,  scrubbed  wood  creaked  and  clanged  at  every  step. 
He  went  doggedly.  The  two  doors  faced  each  other.  He 
went  in  his  room,  pushed  the  door  to,  without  fastening  the 
latch. 

It  was  a  small  room  with  a  large  bed.  Some  of  Clara's 
hairpins  were  on  the  dressing-table— her  hair-brush.  Her 
clothes  and  some  skirts  hung  under  a  cloth  in  a  corner.  There 
was  actually  a  pair  of  stockings  over  a  chair.  He  explored 
the  room.  Two  books  of  his  own  were  there  on  the  shelf. 
He  undressed,  folded  his  suit,  and  sat  on  the  bed,  listening. 
Then  he  blew  out  the  candle,  lay  down,  and  in  two  minutes 
was  almost  asleep.  Then  click!— he  was  wide  awake  and 


396  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

writhing  in  torment.  It  was  as  if,  when  he  had  nearly  got  to 
sleep,  something  had  bitten  him  suddenly  and  sent  him  mad. 
He  sat  up  and  looked  at  the  room  in  the  darkness,  his  feet 
doubled  under  him,  perfectly  motionless,  listening.  He  heard 
a  cat  somewhere  away  outside;  then  the  heavy,  poised  tread 
of  the  mother;  then  Clara's  distinct  voice: 
"Will  you  unfasten  my  dress?" 

There  was  silence  for  some  time.  At  last  the  mother  said: 

"Now  then!  aren't  you  coming  up?" 

"No,  not  yet,"  replied  the  daughter  calmly. 

"Oh,  very  well  then!  If  it's  not  late  enough,  stop  a  bit 
longer.  Only  you  needn't  come  waking  me  up  when  I've 
got  to  sleep." 

"I  shan't  be  long,"  said  Clara. 

Immediately  afterwards  Paul  heard  the  mother  slowly 
mounting  the  stairs.  The  candle-light  flashed  through  the 
cracks  in  his  door.  Her  dress  brushed  the  door,  and  his  heart 
jumped.  Then  it  was  dark,  and  he  heard  the  chatter  of  her 
latch.  She  was  very  leisurely  indeed  in  her  preparations  for 
sleep.  After  a  long  time  it  was  quite  still.  He  sat  strung  up 
on  the  bed,  shivering  slightly.  His  door  was  an  inch  open. 
As  Clara  came  upstairs,  he  would  intercept  her.  He  waited. 
All  was  dead  silence.  The  clock  struck  two.  Then  he  heard 
a  slight  scrape  of  the  fender  downstairs.  Now  he  could  not 
help  himself.  His  shivering  was  uncontrollable.  He  felt  he 
must  go  or  die. 

He  stepped  off  the  bed,  and  stood  a  moment,  shuddering. 
Then  he  went  straight  to  the  door.  He  tried  to  step  lightly. 
The  first  stair  cracked  like  a  shot.  He  listened.  The  old 
woman  stirred  in  her  bed.  The  staircase  was  dark.  There  was 
a  slit  of  light  under  the  stair-foot  door,  which  opened  into 
the  kitchen.  He  stood  a  moment.  Then  he  went  on,  mechani- 
cally. Every  step  creaked,  and  his  back  was  creeping,  lest 
the  old  woman's  door  should  open  behind  him  up  above.  He 
fumbled  with  the  door  at  the  bottom.  The  latch  opened  with 
a  loud  clack.  He  went  through  into  the  kitchen,  and  shut 
the  door  noisily  behind  him.  The  old  woman  daren't  come 
now. 


passion  397 

Then  he  stood,  arrested.  Clara  was  kneeling  on  a  pile  oi 
white  underclothing  on  the  hearthrug,  her  back  towards 
him,  warming  herself.  She  did  not  look  round,  but  sat 
crouching  on  her  heels,  and  her  rounded,  beautiful  back  was 
towards  him,  and  her  face  was  hidden.  She  was  warming  her 
body  at  the  fire  for  consolation.  The  glow  was  rosy  on  one 
side,  the  shadow  was  dark  and  warm  on  the  other.  Her  arms 
hung  slack. 

He  shuddered  violently,  clenching  his  teeth  and  fists  hard 
to  keep  control.  Then  he  went  forward  to  her.  He  put  one 
hand  on  her  shoulder,  the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  under 
her  chin  to  raise  her  face.  A.  convulsed  shiver  ran  through 
her,  once,  twice,  at  his  touch.  She  kept  her  head  bent. 

"Sorry!"  he  murmured,  realizing  that  his  hands  were  very 
cold. 

Then  she  looked  up  at  him,  frightened,  like  a  thing  that 
is  afraid  of  death. 

"My  hands  are  so  cold,"  he  murmured. 

"•I  like  it,"  she  whispered,  closing  her  eyes. 

The  breath  of  her  words  was  on  his  mouth.  Her  arm* 
clasped  his  knees.  The  cord  of  his  sleeping-suit  dangled 
against  her  and  made  her  shiver.  As  the  warmth  went  into 
him,  his  shuddering  became  less. 

At  length,  unable  to  stand  so  any  more,  he  raised  her,  and 
she  buried  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  His  hands  went  over  her 
slowly  with  an  infinite  tenderness  of  caress.  She  clung  close 
to  him,  trying  to  hide  herself  against  him.  He  clasped  her 
very  fast.  Then  at  last  she  looked  at  him,  mute,  imploring, 
looking  to  see  if  she  must  be  ashamed. 

His  eyes  were  dark,  very  deep,  and  very  quiet.  It  was  as 
if  her  beauty  and  his  taking  it  hurt  him,  made  him  sorrowful. 
He  looked  at  her  with  a  little  pain,  and  was  afraid.  He  was 
so  humble  before  her.  She  kissed  him  fervently  on  the  eyes, 
first  one,  then  the  other,  and  she  folded  herself  to  him.  She 
gave  herself.  He  held  her  fast.  It  was  a  moment  intense  al- 
most to  agony. 

She  stood  letting  him  adore  her  and  tremble  with  joy  of 
her.  It  healed  her  hurt  pride.  It  healed  her;  it  made  her  glad. 


398  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

It  made  her  feel  erect  and  proud  again.  Her  pride  had  been 
wounded  inside  her.  She  had  been  cheapened.  Now  she 
radiated  with  joy  and  pride  again.  It  was  her  restoration  and 
her  recognition. 

Then  he  looked  at  her,  Iris  face  radiant.  They  laughed  to 
V  each  other,  and  he  strained  her  to  his  chest.  The  seconds 
ticked  off,  the  minutes  passed,  and  still  the  two  stood  clasped 
rigid  together,  mouth  to  mouth,  like  a  statue  in  one  block. 

But  again  his  fingers  went  seeking  over  her,  restless,  wan- 
dering, dissatisfied.  The  hot  blood  came  up  wave  upon 
wave.  She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"Come  you  to  my  room,"  he  murmured. 

She  looked  at  him  and  shook  her  head,  her  mouth  pouting 
disconsolately,  her  eyes  heavy  with  passion.  He  watched 
her  fixedly. 

"Yes!"  he  said. 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  still  heavily,  sorrowfully,  and  again 
she  shook  her  head.  His  eyes  hardened,  and  he  gave  way. 

When,  later  on,  he  was  back  in  bed,  he  wondered  why 
she  had  refused  to  come  to  him  openly,  so  that  her  mother 
would  know.  At  any  rate,  then  things  would  have  been  defi- 
nite. And  she  could  have  stayed  with  him  the  night,  without 
having  to  go,  as  she  was,  to  her  mother's  bed.  It  was  strange, 
and  he  could  not  understand  it.  And  then  almost  immedi- 
ately he  fell  asleep. 

He  awoke  in  the  morning  with  someone  speaking  to  him. 
Opening  his  eyes,  he  saw  Mrs.  Radford,  big  and  stately, 
looking  down  on  him.  She  held  a  cup  of  tea  in  her  hand. 

"Do  you  think  you're  going  to  sleep  till  Doomsday?" 
she  said. 

He  laughed  at  once. 

"It  ought  only  to  be  about  five  o'clock,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  she  answered,  "it's  half-past  seven,  whether  or 
not.  Here,  I've  brought  you  a  cup  of  tea." 

He  rubbed  his  face,  pushed  the  tumbled  hair  off  his  fore- 
head, and  roused  himself. 


passion  390 

"What's  it  so  late  for! "  he  grumbled. 

He  resented  being  awakened.  It  amused  her.  She  saw  his 
neck  in  the  flannel  sleeping- jacket,  as  white  and  round  as 
a  girl's.  He  rubbed  his  hair  crossly. 

"It's  no  good  your  scratching  your  head,"  she  said.  "It 
won't  make  it  no  earlier.  Here,  an'  how  long  d'you  think  I'm 
going  to  stand  waiting  wi'  this  here  cup?" 

"Oh,  dash  the  cup!"  he  said. 

"You  should  go  to  bed  earlier,"  said  the  woman. 

He  looked  up  at  her,  laughing  with  impudence. 

"I  went  to  bed  before  yon  did,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  my  Guyney,  you  did!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Fancy,"  he  said,  stirring  his  tea,  "having  tea  brought 
to  bed  to  me!  My  mother'll  think  I'm  ruined  for  life." 

"Don't  she  never  do  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Radford. 

"She'd  as  leave  think  of  flying." 

"Ah,  I  always  spoilt  my  lot!  That's  why  they've  turned 
out  such  bad  uns,"  said  the  elderly  woman. 

"You'd  only  Clara,"  he  said.  "And  Mr.  Radford's  in 
heaven.  So  I  suppose  there's  only  you  left  to  be  the  bad  un." 

"I'm  not  bad;  I'm  only  soft,"  she  said,  as  she  went  out  of 
the  bedroom.  "I'm  only  a  fool,  I  am!" 

Clara  was  very  quiet  at  breakfast,  but  she  had  a  sort  of 
air  of  proprietorship  over  him  that  pleased  him  infinitely. 
Mrs.  Radford  was  evidently  fond  of  him.  He  began  to  talk 
of  his  painting. 

"What's  the  good,"  exclaimed  the  mother,  "of  your  whit- 
tling and  worrying  and  twistin'  and  too-in'  at  that  painting 
of  yours?  What  good  does  it  do  you,  I  should  like  to  know? 
You'd  better  be  enjoyin'  yourself." 

"Oh,  but,"  exclaimed  Paul,  "I  made  over  thirty  guineas 
last  year." 

"Did  you!  Well,  that's  a  consideration,  but  it's  nothing 
to  the  time  you  put  in." 

"And  I've  got  four  pounds  owing.  A  man  said  he'd  give 
me  five  pounds  if  I'd  paint  him  and  his  missis  and  the  dog 
*nd  the  cottage.  And  I  went  and  put  the  fowls  in  instead  of 
the  dog,  and  he  was  waxy,  so  I  had  to  knock  a  quid  off.  I 


4oo 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 


was  sick  of  it,  and  I  didn't  like  the  dog.  I  made  a  picture  of 
it.  What  shall  I  do  when  he  pays  me  the  four  pounds?" 

"Nay!  you  know  your  own  uses  for  your  money,"  said 
Mrs.  Radford. 

"But  I'm  going  to  bust  this  four  pounds.  Should  we  go 
to  the  seaside  for  a  day  or  two?" 
"Who?" 

"You  and  Clara  and  me." 

"What,  on  your  money!"  she  exclaimed,  half  wrathful. 
"Why  not?" 

"You  wouldn't  be  long  in  breaking  your  neck  at  a  hurdle 
race!"  she  said. 

"So  long  as  I  get  a  good  run  for  my  money!  Will  you?7' 

"Nay;  you  may  settle  that  atween  you." 

"And  you're  willing?"  he  asked,  amazed  and  rejoicing. 

"You'll  do  as  you  like,"  said  Mrs.  Radford,  "whether  I'm 
willing  or  not." 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

CHAPTER  XIII 


BAXTER  DAWES 


SOON  after  Paul  had  been  to  the  theatre  with  Clara,  he 
was  drinking  in  the  Punch  Bowl  with  some  friends  of 
his  when  Dawes  came  in.  Clara's  husband  was  growing  stout; 
his  eyelids  were  getting  slack  over  his  brown  eyes;  he  was 
losing  his  healthy  firmness  of  flesh.  He  was  very  evidently 
on  the  downward  track.  Having  quarrelled  with  his  sister, 
he  had  gone  into  cheap  lodgings.  His  mistress  had  left  him 
for  a  man  who  would  marry  her.  He  had  been  in  prison  one 
night  for  fighting  when  he  was  drunk,  and  there  was  a 
shady  betting  episode  in  which  he  was  concerned. 

Paul  and  he  were  confirmed  enemies,  and  yet  there  was 
between  them  that  peculiar  feeling  of  intimacy,  as  if  they 
were  secretly  near  to  each  other,  which  sometimes  exists 
between  two  people,  although  they  never  speak  to  one 
another.  Paul  often  thought  of  Baxter  Dawes,  often  wanted 
to  get  at  him  and  be  friends  with  him.  He  knew  that  Dawes 
often  thought  about  him,  and  that  the  man  was  drawn  to 
him  by  some  bond  or  other.  And  yet  the  two  never  looked 
at  each  other  save  in  hostility. 

Since  he  was  a  superior  employee  at  Jordan's,  it  was  the 
thing  for  Paul  to  offer  Dawes  a  drink. 
"What'll  you  have?"  he  asked  of  him. 
"Nowt  wi'  a  bleeder  like  you!"  replied  the  man. 
Paul  turned  away  with  a  slight  disdainful  movement  of 
the  shoulders,  very  irritating. 

"The  aristocracy,"  he  continued,  "is  really  a  military  in- 
stitution. Take  Germany,  now.  She's  got  thousands  of  aris- 
tocrats whose  only  means  of  existence  is  the  army.  They're 
deadly  poor,  and  life's  deadly  slow.  So  they  hope  for  a  war. 
They  look  for  war  as  a  chance  of  getting  on.  Till  there's  r» 

401 


f02  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

war  they  are  idle  good-for-nothings.  When  there's  a  war, 
they  are  leaders  and  commanders.  There  you  are,  then— they 

want  war!" 

He  was  not  a  favourite  debater  in  the  public-house,  being 
too  quick  and  overbearing.  He  irritated  the  older  men  by  his 
assertive  manner,  and  his  cocksureness.  They  listened  in 
silence,  and  were  not  sorry  when  he  finished. 

Dawes  interrupted  the  young  man's  flow  of  eloquence  by 
asking,  in  a  loud  sneer: 

"Did  you  learn  all  that  at  th'  theatre  th'  other  night?" 

Paul  looked  at  him;  their  eyes  met.  Then  he  knew  Dawes 
had  seen  him  coming  out  of  the  theatre  with  Clara. 

"Why,  what  about  th'  theatre?"  asked  one  of  Paul's  asso- 
ciates, glad  to  get  a  dig  at  the  young  fellow,  and  sniffing 
something  tasty. 

"Oh,  him  in  a  bob-tailed  evening  suit,  on  the  lardy-da!" 
sneered  Dawes,  jerking  his  head  contemptuously  at  Paul. 

"That's  comin'  it  strong,"  said  the  mutual  friend.  "Tart 
an'  all?" 

"Tart,  begod!"  said  Dawes. 

"Go  on;  let's  have  it!"  cried  the  mutual  friend. 

"You've  got  it,"  said  Dawes,  "an'  I  reckon  Morelly  had 
h  an'  all." 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered!"  said  the  mutual  friend.  "An'  was 
it  a  proper  tart?" 

"Tart,  God  blimey— yes!" 
"How  do  you  know?" 

"Oh,"  said  Dawes,  "I  reckon  he  spent  th'  night  " 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  laughter  at  Paul's  expense. 
"But  who  was  she?  D'you  know  her?"  asked  the  mutual 
/riend. 

"I  should  shay  sho"  said  Dawes. 
This  brought  another  burst  of  laughter. 
"Then  spit  it  out,"  said  the  mutual  friend. 
Dawes  shook  his  head,  and  took  a  gulp  of  beer. 
"It's  a  wonder  he  hasn't  let  on  himself,"  he  said.  "He'll 
be  braggin'  of  it  in  a  bit." 


BAXTER  DAWES  403 

"Come  on,  Paul,"  said  the  friend;  "it's  no  good.  You 
might  just  as  well  own  up." 

"Own  up  what?  That  I  happened  to  take  a  friend  to 
the  theatre?" 

"Oh  well,  if  it  was  all  right,  tell  us  who  she  was,  lad," 
said  the  friend. 

"She  was  all  right,"  said  Dawes. 

Paul  was  furious.  Dawes  wiped  his  golden  moustache  with 
his  fingers,  sneering. 

"Strike  me—!  One  o'  that  sort?"  said  the  mutual  friend, 
"Paul,  boy,  I'm  surprised  at  you.  And  do  you  know  her, 
Baxter?" 

"Just  a  bit,  like!" 

He  winked  at  the  other  men. 

"Oh  well,"  said  Paul,  'Til  be  going!" 

The  mutual  friend  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Nay,"  he  said,  "you  don't  get  off  as  easy  as  that,  my 
lad.  We've  got  to  have  a  full  account  of  this  business." 

"Then  get  it  from  Dawes!"  he  said. 

"You  shouldn't  funk  your  own  deeds,  man,"  remonstrated 
the  friend. 

Then  Dawes  made  a  remark  which  caused  Paul  to  throw 
half  a  glass  of  beer  in  his  face. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Morel!"  cried  the  barmaid,  and  she  rang  the 
bell  for  the  "chucker-out." 

Dawes  spat  and  rushed  for  the  young  man.  At  that  minute 
a  brawny  fellow  with  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up  and  his 
trousers  tight  over  his  haunches  intervened. 

"Now,  then!"  he  said,  pushing  his  chest  in  front  of  Dawes. 

"Come  out!"  cried  Dawes. 

Paul  was  leaning,  white  and  quivering,  against  the  brass 
rail  of  the  bar.  He  hated  Dawes,  wished  something  could 
exterminate  him  at  that  minute;  and  at  the  same  time,  seeing 
the  wet  hair  on  the  man's  forehead,  he  thought  he  looked 
pathetic.  He  did  not  move. 

"Come  out,  you—,"  said  Dawes. 

"That's  enough,  Dawes,"  cried  the  barmaid. 


404  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Come  on,"  said  the  "chucker-out,"  with  kindly  insist- 
ence, "you'd  better  be  getting  on." 

And,  by  making  Dawes  edge  away  from  his  own  close 
proximity,  he  worked  him  to  the  door. 

"That's  the  little  sod  as  started  it!5'  cried  Dawes,  half 
cowed,  pointing  to  Paul  Morel. 

"Why,  what  a  story,  Mr.  Dawes!"  said  the  barmaid.  "You 
know  it  was  you  all  the  time." 

Still  the  "chucker-out"  kept  thrusting  his  chest  forward 
at  him,  still  he  kept  edging  back,  until  he  was  in  the  doorway 
and  on  the  steps  outside;  then  he  turned  round. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  nodding  straight  at  his  rival. 

Paul  had  a  curious  sensation  of  pity,  almost  of  affection, 
mingled  with  violent  hate,  for  the  man.  The  coloured  door 
swung  to;  there  was  silence  in  the  bar. 

"Serve  him  jolly  well  right!"  said  the  barmaid. 

"But  it's  a  nasty  thing  to  get  a  glass  of  beer  in  your  eyes," 
said  the  mutual  friend. 

"I  tell  you  /  was  glad  he  did,"  said  the  barmaid.  "Will  you 
have  another,  Mr.  Morel?" 

She  held  up  Paul's  glass  questioningly.  He  nodded. 

"He's  a  man  as  doesn't  care  for  anything,  is  Baxter  Dawes," 
said  one. 

"Pooh!  is  he?"  said  the  barmaid.  "He's  a  loud-mouthed 
one,  he  is,  and  they're  never  much  good.  Give  me  a  pleasant- 
spoken  chap,  if  you  want  a  devil!" 

"Well,  Paul,  my  lad,"  said  the  friend,  "you'll  have  to  take 
care  of  yourself  now  for  a  while." 

"You  won't  have  to  give  him  a  chance  over  you,  that's 
all,"  said  the  barmaid. 

"Can  you  box?"  asked  a  friend. 

"Not  a  bit,"  he  answered,  still  very  white. 

"I  might  give  you  a  turn  or  two,"  said  the  friend. 

"Thanks,  I  haven't  time." 

And  presently  he  took  his  departure. 

"Go  along  with  him,  Mr.  Jenkinson,"  whispered  the  bar- 
maid, tipping  Mr.  Jenkinson  the  wink. 


BAXTER  DAWES  405 

The  man  nodded,  took  his  hat,  said  "Good-night  all!"  very 
heartily,  and  followed  Paul,  calling: 

"Half  a  minute,  old  man.  You  an'  me's  going  the  same 
road,  I  believe." 

"Mr.  Morel  doesn't  like  it,"  said  the  barmaid.  "You'll  see, 
we  shan't  have  him  in  much  more.  I'm  sorry;  he's  good  com- 
pany. And  Baxter  Dawes  wants  locking  up,  that's  what  he 
wants." 

Paul  would  have  died  rather  than  his  mother  should  get 
to  know  of  this  affair.  He  suffered  tortures  of  humiliation 
and  self-consciousness.  There  was  now  a  good  deal  of  his 
life  of  which  necessarily  he  could  not  speak  to  his  mother. 
He  had  a  life  apart  from  her— his  sexual  life.  The  rest  she  still 
kept.  But  he  felt  he  had  to  conceal  something  from  her, 
and  it  irked  him.  There  was  a  certain  silence  between  them, 
and  he  felt  he  had,  in  that  silence,  to  defend  himself  against 
her;  he  felt  condemned  by  her.  Then  sometimes  he  hated 
her,  and  pulled  at  her  bondage.  His  life  wanted  to  free  itself 
of  her.  It  was  like  a  circle  where  life  turned  back  on  itself, 
and  got  no  farther.  She  bore  him,  loved  him,  kept  him,  and 
his  love  turned  back  into  her,  so  that  he  could  not  be  free 
to  go  forward  with  his  own  life,  really  love  another  woman. 
At  this  period,  unknowingly,  he  resisted  his  mother's  influ- 
ence. He  did  not  tell  her  things;  there  was  a  distance  between 
them. 

Clara  was  happy,  almost  sure  of  him.  She  felt  she  had  at 
last  got  him  for  herself;  and  then  again  came  the  uncertainty. 
He  told  her  jestingly  of  the  affair  with  her  husband.  Her 
colour  came  up,  her  grey  eyes  flashed. 

"That's  him  to  a  'T,'  "  she  cried— "like  a  navvy!  He's  not 
fit  for  mixing  with  decent  folk." 

"Yet  you  married  him,"  he  said. 

It  made  her  furious  that  he  reminded  her. 

"I  did!"  she  cried.  "But  how  was  I  to  know!" 

"I  think  he  might  have  been  rather  nice,"  he  said. 

"You  think  /  made  him  what  he  is!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Oh  no!  he  made  himself.  But  there's  something  abou*. 
him  " 


406  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Clara  looked  at  her  lover  closely.  There  was  something 
in  him  she  hated,  a  sort  of  detached  criticism  of  herself,  a 
coldness  which  made  her  woman's  soul  harden  against  him. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked. 

"How?" 

"About  Baxter." 

"There's  nothing  to  do,  is  there?"  he  replied. 

"You  can  fight  him  if  you  have  to,  I  suppose?"  she  said. 

"No;  I  haven't  the  least  sense  of  the  'fist.'  It's  funny.  With 
most  men  there's  the  instinct  to  clench  the  fist  and  hit.  It's 
not  so  with  me.  I  should  want  a  knife  or  a  pistol  or  something 
to  fight  with." 

"Then  you'd  better  carry  something,"  she  said. 

"Nay,"  he  laughed;  "I'm  not  daggeroso." 

"But  he'll  do  something  to  you.  You  don't  know  him." 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "we'll  see." 

"And  you'll  let  him?" 

"Perhaps,  if  I  can't  help  it." 

"And  if  he  kills  you?"  she  said. 

"I  should  be  sorry,  for  his  sake  and  mine." 

Clara  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"You  do  make  me  angry!"  she  exclaimed. 

"That's  nothing  afresh,"  he  laughed. 

"But  why  are  you  so  silly?  You  don't  know  him." 

"And  don't  want." 

"Yes,  but  you're  not  going  to  let  a  man  do  as  he  likes 
with  you?" 

"What  must  I  do?"  he  replied,  laughing. 

"/  should  carry  a  revolver,"  she  said.  "I'm  sure  he's 
dangerous." 

"I  might  blow  my  fingers  off,"  he  said. 

"No;  but  won't  you?"  she  pleaded. 

"No." 

"Not  anything?" 
"No." 

"And  you'll  leave  him  to  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  a  fool!" 


BAXTER  DAWES  407 

"Fact!" 

She  set  her  teeth  with  anger. 

"I  could  shake  you!"  she  cried,  trembling  with  passion. 
"Why?" 

"Let  a  man  like  him  do  as  he  likes  with  you." 
"You  can  go  back  to  him  if  he  triumphs,"  he  said. 
"Do  you  want  me  to  hate  you?"  she  asked. 
"Well,  I  only  tell  you,"  he  said. 

"And  you  say  you  love  me!"  she  exclaimed,  low  and  in- 
dignant. 

"Ought  I  to  slay  him  to  please  you?"  he  said.  "But  if  I 
did,  see  what  a  hold  he'd  have  over  me." 
"Do  you  think  I'm  a  fool?"  she  exclaimed. 
"Not  at  all.  But  you  don't  understand  me,  my  dear." 
There  was  a  pause  between  them. 
"But  you  ought  not  to  expose  yourself,"  she  pleaded. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  "The  man  in  righteousness  arrayed, 
The  pure  and  blameless  liver, 
Needs  not  the  keen  Toledo  blade, 
Nor  venom-freighted  quiver,'  " 

he  quoted. 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly. 

"I  wish  I  could  understand  vou,"  she  said. 

"There's  simply  nothing  to  understand,"  he  laughed. 

She  bowed  her  head,  brooding. 

He  did  not  see  Dawes  for  several  days;  then  one  morning 
as  he  ran  upstairs  from  the  spiral  room  he  almost  collided 
with  the  burly  metal-worker. 

"What  the—!"  cried  the  smith. 

"Sorry!"  said  Paul,  and  passed  on. 

"Sorry!"  sneered  Dawes. 

Paul  whistled  lightly,  "Put  Me  among  the  Girls." 
"I'll  stop  your  whistle,  my  jockey!"  he  said. 
The  other  took  no  notice. 

"You're  goin'  to  answer  for  that  job  of  the  other  night." 
Paul  went  to  his  desk  in  his  corner,  and  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  the  ledger. 


438  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Go  and  tell  Fanny  I  want  order  097,  quick!"  he  said  to 
his  boy. 

Dawes  stood  in  the  doorway,  tall  and  threatening,  looking 
at  the  top  of  the  young  man's  head. 

"Six  and  five's  eleven  and  seven's  one-and-six,"  Paul  added 
aloud. 

"An'  you  hear,  do  you!"  said  Dawes. 
"Five  and  ninepence!"  He  wrote  a  figure.  "What's  that?" 
he  said. 

"I'm  going  to  show  you  what  it  is,"  said  the  smith. 

The  other  went  on  adding  the  figures  aloud. 

"Yer  crawlin'  little—,  yer  daresn't  face  me  proper!" 

Paul  quickly  snatched  the  heavy  ruler.  Dawes  started. 
The  young  man  ruled  some  lines  in  his  ledger.  The  elder  man 
was  infuriated. 

"But  wait  till  I  light  on  you,  no  matter  where  it  is,  I'll 
settle  your  hash  for  a  bit,  yer  little  swine!" 

"All  right,"  said  Paul. 

At  that  the  smith  started  heavily  from  the  doorway.  Just 
then  a  whistle  piped  shrilly.  Paul  went  to  the  speaking-tube. 

"Yes!"  he  said,  and  he  listened.  "Er— yes!"  He  listened, 
then  he  laughed.  "I'll  come  down  directly.  I've  got  a  visitor 
just  now." 

Dawes  knew  from  his  tone  that  he  had  been  speaking  to 
Clara.  He  stepped  forward. 

"Yer  little  devil!"  he  said.  "I'll  visitor  you,  inside  of  two 
minutes!  Think  I'm  goin'  ter  have  you  whipperty-snappin' 
round?" 

The  other  clerks  in  the  warehouse  looked  up.  Paul's  office- 
boy  appeared,  holding  some  white  article. 

"Fanny  says  you  could  have  had  it  last  night  if  you'd  let 
her  know,"  he  said. 

"All  right,"  answered  Paul,  looking  at  the  stocking.  "Get 
it  off." 

Dawes  stood  frustrated,  helpless  with  rage.  Morel  turned 
round. 

"Excuse  me  a  minute,"  he  said  to  Dawes,  and  he  would 
have  run  downstairs. 


BAXTER  DAWES  409 

"By  God,  I'll  stop  your  gallop!"  shouted  the  smith,  seizing 
him  by  the  arm.  He  turned  quickly.  1 

"Hey!  hey!"  cried  the  office-boy,  alarmed. 

Thomas  Jordan  started  out  of  his  little  glass  office,  and 
came  running  down  the  room. 

"What's  a-matter,  what's  a-matter?"  he  said,  in  his  old 
man's  sharp  voice. 

"I'm  just  goin'  ter  settle  this  little—,  that's  all,"  said  Dawes 
desperately. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  snapped  Thomas  Jordan. 
"What  I  say,"  said  Dawes,  but  he  hung  fire. 
Morel  was  leaning  against  the  counter,  ashamed,  half 
grinning. 

"What's  it  all  about?"  snapped  Thomas  Jordan. 
"Couldn't  say,"  said  Paul,  shaking  his  head  and  shrugging 
his  shoulders. 

"Couldn't  yer,  couldn't  yer!"  cried  Dawes,  thrusting  for- 
ward his  handsome,  furious  face,  and  squaring  his  fist. 

"Have  you  finished?"  cried  the  old  man,  strutting.  "Get 
off  about  your  business,  and  don't  come  here  tipsy  in  the 
morning." 

Dawes  turned  his  big  frame  slowly  upon  him. 
"Tipsy!"  he  said.  "Who's  tipsy?  I'm  no  more  tipsy  than 
you  are!" 

"We've  heard  that  song  before,"  snapped  the  old  man. 
"Now  you  get  off,  and  don't  be  long  about  it.  Comin'  here 
with  your  rowdying." 

The  smith  looked  down  contemptuously  on  his  employer. 
His  hands,  large  and  grimy,  and  yet  well  shaped  for  his 
labour,  worked  restlessly.  Paul  remembered  they  were  the 
hands  of  Clara's  husband,  and  a  flash  of  hate  went  through 
him. 

"Get  out  before  you're  turned  out!"  snapped  Thomas 
Jordan. 

"Why,  who'll  turn  me  out?"  said  Dawes,  beginning  to 
sneer. 

Mr.  Jordan  started,  marched  up  to  the  smith,  waving  him 
off,  thrusting  his  stout  little  figure  at  the  man,  saying: 


41 0  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Get  off  my  premises— get  off!" 

He  seized  and  twitched  Dawes'  arm. 

"Come  off!"  said  the  smith,  and  with  a  jerk  of  the  elbow 
he  sent  the  little  manufacturer  staggering  backwards. 

Before  anyone  could  help  him,  Thomas  Jordan  had  col- 
lided with  the  flimsy  spring-door.  It  had  given  way,  and  let 
him  crash  down  the  half-dozen  steps  into  Fanny's  room. 
There  was  a  second  of  amazement;  then  men  and  girls  were 
running.  Dawes  stood  a  moment  looking  bitterly  on  the 
scene,  then  he  took  his  departure. 

Thomas  Jordan  was  shaken  and  bruised,  not  otherwise 
hurt.  He  was,  however,  beside  himself  with  rage.  He  dis- 
missed Dawes  from  his  employment,  and  summoned  him  for 
assault. 

At  the  trial  Paul  Morel  had  to  give  evidence.  Asked  how 
the  trouble  began,  he  said: 

"Dawes  took  occasion  to  insult  Mrs.  Dawes  and  me  be- 
cause I  accompanied  her  to  the  theatre  one  evening;  then  I 
threw  some  beer  at  him,  and  he  wanted  his  revenge." 

"Cherchez  la  femme!"  smiled  the  magistrate. 

The  case  was  dismissed  after  the  magistrate  had  told 
Dawes  he  thought  him  a  skunk. 

"You  gave  the  case  away,"  snapped  Mr.  Jordan  to  Paul. 

"I  don't  think  I  did,"  replied  the  latter.  "Besides,  you  didn't 
really  want  a  conviction,  did  you?" 

"What  do  you  think  I  took  the  case  up  for?" 

"Well,"  said  Paul,  "I'm  sorry  if  I  said  the  wrong  thing." 

Clara  was  also  very  angry. 

"Why  need  my  name  have  been  dragged  in?"  she  said. 
"Better  speak  it  openly  than  leave  it  to  be  whispered." 
"There  was  no  need  for  anything  at  all,"  she  declared. 
"We  are  none  the  poorer,"  he  said  indifferently. 
"You  may  not  be,"  she  said. 
"And  you?"  he  asked. 
"I  need  never  have  been  mentioned." 
"I'm  sorry,"  he  said;  but  he  did  not  sound  sorry. 
He  told  himself  easily:  "She  will  come  round."  And  she 
iid. 


BAXTER  DAWES  4U 

He  told  his  mother  about  the  fall  of  Mr.  Jordan  and  the 
trial  of  Dawes.  Mrs.  Morel  watched  him  closely. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  it  all?"  she  asked  him. 

"I  think  he's  a  fool,"  he  said. 

But  he  was  very  uncomfortable,  nevertheless. 

"Have  you  ever  considered  where  it  will  end?"  his  mother 
said. 

"No,"  he  answered;  "things  work  out  of  themselves." 
"They  do,  in  a  way  one  doesn't  like,  as  a  rule,"  said  his 
mother. 

"And  then  one  has  to  puf  up  with  them,"  he  said. 
"You'll  find  you're  not  as  good  at  'putting  up'  as  you 
imagine,"  she  said. 

He  went  on  working  rapidly  at  his  design. 

"Do  you  ever  ask  her  opinion?"  she  said  at  length. 

"What  of?" 

"Of  you,  and  the  whole  thing." 

"I  don't  care  what  her  opinion  of  me  is.  She's  fearfully  in 
love  with  me,  but  it's  not  very  deep." 

"But  quite  as  deep  as  your  feeling  for  her." 

He  looked  up  at  his  mother  curiously. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "You  know,  mother,  I  think  there  must 
be  something  the  matter  with  me,  that  I  can't  love.  When 
she's  there,  as  a  rule,  I  do  love  her.  Sometimes,  when  I  see 
her  just  as  the  ivoman,  I  love  her,  mother;  but  then,  when 
she  talks  and  criticizes,  I  often  don't  listen  to  her." 

"Yet  she's  as  much  sense  as  Miriam." 

"Perhaps;  and  I  love  her  better  than  Miriam.  But  'why 
don't  they  hold  me?" 

The  last  question  was  almost  a  lamentation.  His  mothei 
turned  away  her  face,  sat  looking  across  the  room,  very 
quiet,  grave,  with  something  of  renunciation. 

"But  you  wouldn't  want  to  marry  Clara?"  she  said. 

"No;  at  first  perhaps  I  would.  But  why— why  don't  I  want 
to  marry  her  or  anybody?  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  wronged 
my  women,  mother." 

"How  wronged  them,  my  son?" 

"I  don't  know." 


4-12  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

He  went  on  painting  rather  despairingly;  he  had  touched 
the  quick  of  the  trouble. 

"And  as  for  wanting  to  marry,"  said  his  mother,  "there's 
plenty  of  time  yet." 

"But  no,  mother.  I  even  love  Clara,  and  I  did  Miriam;  but 
to  give  myself  to  them  in  marriage  I  couldn't.  I  couldn't 
belong  to  them.  They  seem  to  want  me,  and  I  can't  ever  give 
it  them." 

"You  haven't  met  the  right  woman." 
"And  I  never  shall  meet  the  right  woman  while  you  live," 
he  said. 

She  was  very  quiet.  Now  she  began  to  feel  again  tired,  as 
if  she  were  done. 

"We'll  see,  my  son,"  she  answered. 

The  feeling  that  things  were  going  in  a  circle  made  him 
mad. 

Clara  was,  indeed,  passionately  in  love  with  him,  and  he 
with  her,  as  far  as  passion  went.  In  the  daytime  he  forgot 
her  a  good  deal.  She  was  working  in  the  same  building,  but 
he  was  not  aware  of  it.  He  was  busy,  and  her  existence  was 
of  no  matter  to  him.  But  all  the  time  she  was  in  her  spiral 
loom  she  had  a  sense  that  he  was  upstairs,  a  physical  sense 
of  his  person  in  the  same  building.  Every  second  she  ex- 
pected him  to  come  through  the  door,  and  when  he  came  it 
was  a  shock  to  her.  But  he  was  often  short  and  offhand  with 
her.  He  gave  her  his  directions  in  an  official  manner,  keeping 
her  at  bay.  With  what  wits  she  had  left  she  listened  to  him. 
She  dared  not  misunderstand  or  fail  to  remember,  but  it  was 
a  cruelty  to  her.  She  wanted  to  touch  his  chest.  She  knew 
exactly  how  his  breast  was  shapen  under  the  waistcoat,  and 
she  wanted  to  touch  it.  It  maddened  her  to  hear  his  mechani- 
cal voice  giving  orders  about  the  work.  She  wanted  to 
break  through  the  sham  of  it,  smash  the  trivial  coating  of 
business  which  covered  him  with  hardness,  get  at  the  man 
again;  but  she  was  afraid,  and  before  she  could  feel  one  touch 
of  his  warmth  he  was  gone,  and  she  ached  again. 

He  knew  that  she  was  dreary  every  evening  she  did  not 
see  him,  so  he  gave  her  a  good  deal  of  his  time.  The  days 


BAXTER  DAWES  413 

were  often  a  misery  to  her,  but  the  evenings  and  the  nights 
were  usually  a  bliss  to  them  both.  Then  they  were  silent.  For 
hours  they  sat  together,  or  walked  together  in  the  dark,  and 
talked  only  a  few,  almost  meaningless  words.  But  he  had 
her  hand  in  his,  and  her  bosom  left  its  warmth  in  his  chest, 
making  him  feel  whole. 

One  evening  they  were  walking  down  by  the  canal,  and 
something  was  troubling  him.  She  knew  she  had  not  got  him. 
All  the- time  he  whistled  softly  and  persistently  to  himself. 
She  listened,  feeling  she  could  learn  more  from  his  whistling 
than  from  his  speech.  It  was  a  sad,  dissatisfied  tune— a  tune 
that  made  her  feel  he  would  not  stay  with  her.  She  walked 
on  in  silence.  When  they  came  to  the  swing  bridge  he  sat 
down  on  the  great  pole,  looking  at  the  stars  in  the  water.  He 
was  a  long  way  from  her.  She  had  been  thinking. 

"Will  you  always  stay  at  Jordan's?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  answered  without  reflecting.  "No;  I  s'll  leave, 
Nottingham  and  go  abroad— soon." 

"Go  abroad!  What  for?" 

"I  dunno!  I  feel  restless." 

"But  what  shall  you  do?" 

"I  shall  have  to  get  some  steady  designing  work,  and 
some  sort  of  sale  for  my  pictures  first,"  he  said.  "I  am  gradu- 
ally making  my  way.  I  know  I  am." 

"And  when  do  you  think  you'll  go?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  shall  hardly  go  for  long,  while  there's 
my  mother." 

"You  couldn't  leave  her?" 

"Not  for  long." 

She  looked  at  the  stars  in  the  black  water.  They  lay  very 
white  and  staring.  It  was  an  agony  to  know  he  would  leave 
her,  but  it  was  almost  an  agony  to  have  him  near  her. 

"And  if  you  made  a  nice  lot  of  money,  what  would  you 
do?"  she  asked. 

"Go  somewhere  in  a  pretty  house  near  London  with  my 
mother." 

"I  see." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 


414  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"I  could  still  come  and  see  you,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know. 
Don't  ask  me  what  I  should  do;  I  don't  know." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  stars  shuddered  and  broke  upon 
the  water.  There  came  a  breath  of  wind.  He  went  suddenly 
co  her,  and  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Don't  ask  me  anything  about  the  future,"  he  said  mis- 
erably. "I  don't  know  anything.  Be  with  me  now,  will  you, 
no  matter  what  it  is?" 

And  she  took  him  in  her  arms.  After  all,  she  was  a  married 
woman,  and  she  had  no  right  even  to  what  he  gave  her.  He 
needed  her  badly.  She  had  him  in  her  arms,  and  he  was 
miserable.  With  her  warmth  she  folded  him  over,  con- 
soled him,  loved  him.  She  would  let  the  moment  stand  for 
itself. 

After  a  moment  he  lifted  his  head  as  if  he  wanted  to  speak. 
"Clara,"  he  said,  struggling. 

She  caught  him  passionately  to  her,  pressed  his  head  down 
on  her  breast  with  her  hand.  She  could  not  bear  the  suffering 
in  his  voice.  She  was  afraid  in  her  soul.  He  might  have  any- 
thing of  her— anything;  but  she  did  not  want  to  know.  She 
felt  she  could  not  bear  it.  She  wanted  him  to  be  soothed 
upon  her— soothed.  She  stood  clasping  him  and  caressing 
him,  and  he  was  something  unknown  to  her— something  al- 
most uncanny,  She  wanted  to  soothe  him  into  forgetfulness. 

And  soon  the  struggle  went  down  in  his  soul,  and  he 
forgot.  But  then  Clara  was  not  there  for  him,  only  a  woman, 
warm,  something  he  loved  and  almost  worshipped,  there  in 
the  dark.  But  it  was  not  Clara,  and  she  submitted  to  him. 
The  naked  hunger  and  inevitability  of  his  loving  her,  some- 
thing strong  and  blind  and  ruthless  in  its  primitiveness,  made 
the  hour  almost  terrible  to  her.  She  knew  how  stark  and 
alone  he  was,  and  she  felt  it  was  great  that  he  came  to  her; 
and  she  took  him  simply  because  his  need  was  bigger  either 
than  her  or  him,  and  her  soul  was  still  within  her.  She  did 
this  for  him  in  his  need,  even  if  he  left  her,  for  she  loved 
him. 

All  the  while  the  peewits  were  screaming  in  the  field. 
When  he  came  to,  he  wondered  what  was  near  his  eyes, 


BAXTER  DAWES  415 

curving  and  strong  with  life  in  the  dark,  and  what  voice 
it  was  speaking.  Then  he  realized  it  was  the  grass,  and  the 
peewit  was  calling.  The  warmth  was  Clara's  breathing  heav- 
ing. He  lifted  his  head,  and  looked  into  her  eyes.  They  were 
dark  and  shining  and  strange,  life  wild  at  the  source  staring 
into  his  life,  stranger  to  him,  yet  meeting  him;  and  he  put  his 
face  down  on  her  throat,  afraid.  What  was  she?  A  strong, 
strange,  wild  life,  that  breathed  with  his  in  the  darkness 
through  this  hour.  It  was  all  so  much  bigger  than  themselves 
that  he  was  hushed.  They  had  met,  and  included  in  their 
meeting  the  thrust  of  the  manifold  grass-stems,  the  cry  of 
the  peewit,  the  wheel  of  the  stars. 

When  they  stood  up  they  saw  other  lovers  stealing  down 
the  opposite  hedge.  It  seemed  natural  they  were  there;  the 
night  contained  them. 

And  after  such  an  evening  they  both  were  very  still,  hav- 
ing known  the  immensity  of  passion.  They  felt  small,  half 
afraid,  childish,  and  wondering,  like  Adam  and  Eve  when 
they  lost  their  innocence  and  realized  the  magnificence  of 
the  power  which  drove  them  out  of  Paradise  and  across  the 
great  night  and  the  great  day  of  humanity.  It  was  for  each 
of  them  an  initiation  and  a  satisfaction.  To  know  their  own 
nothingness,  to  know  the  tremendous  living  flood  which 
carried  them  always,  gave  them  rest  within  themselves.  If  so 
great  a  magnificent  power  could  overwhelm  them,  identify 
them  altogether  with  itself,  so  that  they  knew  they  were 
only  grains  in  the  tremendous  heave  that  lifted  every  grass- 
blade  its  little  height,  and  every  tree,  and  living  thing,  then 
why  fret  about  themselves?  They  could  let  themselves  be 
carried  by  life,  and  they  felt  a  sort  of  peace  each  in  the  other. 
There  was  a  verification  which  they  had  had  together. 
Nothing  could  nullify  it,  nothing  could  take  it  away;  it  was 
almost  their  belief  in  life. 

But  Clara  was  not  satisfied.  Something  great  was  there, 
she  knew;  something  great  enveloped  her.  But  it  did  not 
keep  her.  In  the  morning  it  was  not  the  same.  They  had 
known,  but  she  could  not  keep  the  moment.  She  wanted  it 
again;  she  wanted  something  permanent.  She  had  not  realized 


41 6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

fully.  She  thought  it  was  he  whom  she  wanted.  He  was  not 
safe  to  her.  This  that  had  been  between  them  might  never 
be  again;  he  might  leave  her.  She  had  not  got  him;  she  was 
not  satisfied.  She  had  been  there,  but  she  had  not  gripped 
the— the  something— she  knew  not  what— which  she  was 
mad  to  have. 

In  the  morning  he  had  considerable  peace,  and  was  happy 
in  himself.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  he  had  known  the  baptism 
of  fire  in  passion,  and  it  left  him  at  rest.  But  it  was  not  Clara. 
It  was  something  that  happened  because  of  her,  but  it  was 
not  her.  They  were  scarcely  any  nearer  each  other.  It  was 
as  if  they  had  been  blind  agents  of  a  great  force. 

When  she  saw  him  that  day  at  the  factory  her  heart  melted 
like  a  drop  of  fire.  It  was  his  body,  his  brows.  The  drop 
of  fire  grew  more  intense  in  her  breast;  she  must  hold  him. 
But  he,  very  quiet,  very  subdued  this  morning,  went  on  giv- 
ing his  instructions.  She  followed  him  into  the  dark,  ugly 
basement,  and  lifted  her  arms  to  him.  He  kissed  her,  and  the 
intensity  of  passion  began  to  burn  him  again.  Somebody  was 
at  the  door.  He  ran  upstairs;  she  returned  to  her  room,  mov- 
ing as  if  in  a  trance. 

After  that  the  fire  slowly  went  down.  He  felt  more  and 
more  that  his  experience  had  been  impersonal,  and  not  Clara. 
He  loved  her.  There  was  a  big  tenderness,  as  after  a  strong 
emotion  they  had  known  together;  but  it  was  not  she  who 
could  keep  his  soul  steady.  He  had  wanted  her  to  be  some- 
thing she  could  not  be. 

And  she  was  mad  with  desire  of  him.  She  could  not  see 
him  without  touching  him.  In  the  factory,  as  he  talked  to 
her  about  spiral  hose,  she  ran  her  hand  secretly  along  his 
<jde.  She  followed  him  out  into  the  basement  for  a  quick 
kiss;  her  eyes,  always  mute  and  yearning,  full  of  unrestrained 
passion,  she  kept  fixed  on  his.  He  was  afraid  of  her,  lest 
she  should  too  flagrantly  give  herself  away  before  the  other 
girls.  She  invariably  waited  for  him  at  dinner-time  for  him 
to  embrace  her  before  she  went.  He  felt  as  if  she  were  help- 
less, almost  a  burden  to  him,  and  it  irritated  him. 

"But  what  do  you  always  want  to  be  kissing  and  em- 


BAXTER  DAWES  417 

bracing  for?"  he  said.  "Surely  there's  a  time  for  every- 
thing." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  the  hate  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Do  I  always  want  to  be  kissing  you?"  she  said. 

"Always,  even  if  I  come  to  ask  you  about  the  work.  1 
don't  want  anything  to  do  with  love  when  I'm  at  work. 
Work's  work  " 

"And  what  is  love?"  she  asked.  "Has  it  to  have  special 
hours?" 

"Yes;  out  of  work  hours." 

"And  you'll  regulate  it  according  to  Mr.  Jordan  s  closing 
time?" 

"Yes;  and  according  to  the  freedom  from  business  of  any 
sort.*' 

"It  is  only  to  exist  in  spare  time?" 

"That's  all,  and  not  always  then— not  the  kissing  sort  of 
love." 

"And  that's  all  you  think  of  it?" 

"It's  quite  enough." 
f  "I'm  glad  you  think  so." 

And  she  was  cold  to  him  for  some  time— she  hated  him; 
and  while  she  was  cold  and  contemptuous,  he  was  uneasy  till 
she  had  forgiven  him  again.  But  when  they  started  afresh 
they  were  not  any  nearer.  He  kept  her  because  he  never 
satisfied  her.  -~ 

In  the  spring  they  went  together  to  the  seaside.  They 
had  rooms  at  a  little  cottage  near  Theddlethorpe,  and  lived 
as  man  and  wife.  Mrs.  Radford  sometimes  went  with  them. 

It  was  known  in  Nottingham  that  Paul  Morel  and  Mrs, 
Dawes  were  going  together,  but  as  nothing  was  very  obvi- 
ous, and  Clara  was  always  a  solitary  person,  and  he  seemed 
so  simple  and  innocent,  it  did  not  make  much  difference. 

He  loved  the  Lincolnshire  coast,  and  she  loved  the  sea. 
In  the  early  morning  they  often  went  out  together  to  bathe. 
The  grey  of  the  dawn,  the  far,  desolate  reaches  of  the  fen- 
land  smitten  with  winter,  the  sea-meadows  rank  with  herb- 
age, were  stark  enough  to  rejoice  his  soul.  As  they  stepped 
on  to  the  highroad  from  their  plank  bridge,  and  looked 


41 8  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

round  at  the  endless  monotony  of  levels,  the  land  a  little 
darker  than  the  sky,  the  sea  sounding  small  beyond  the  sand- 
hills, his  heart  filled  strong  with  the  sweeping  relentlessness 
of  life.  She  loved  him  then.  He  was  solitary  and  strong,  and 
his  eyes  had  a  beautiful  light. 

They  shuddered  with  cold;  then  he  raced  her  down  the 
road  to  the  green  turf  bridge.  She  could  run  well.  Her  col- 
our soon  came,  her  throat  was  bare,  her  eyes  shone.  He  loved 
her  for  being  so  luxuriously  heavy,  and  yet  so  quick.  Him- 
self was  light;  she  went  with  a  beautiful  rush.  They  grew 
warm,  and  walked  hand  in  hand. 

A  flush  came  into  the  sky;  the  wan  moon,  half-way  down 
the  west,  sank  into  insignificance.  On  the  shadowy  land 
things  began  to  take  life,  plants  with  great  leaves  became 
distinct.  They  came  through  a  pass  in  the  big,  cold  sandhills 
on  to  the  beach.  The  long  waste  of  foreshore  lay  moaning 
un  ier  the  dawn  and  the  sea;  the  ocean  was  a  flat  dark  strip 
with  a  white  edge.  Over  the  gloomy  sea  the  sky  grew  red. 
Quickly  the  fire  spread  among  the  clouds  and  scattered 
them.  Crimson  burned  to  orange,  orange  to  dull  gold,  and 
in  a  golden  glitter  the  sun  came  up,  dribbling  fierily  over  the 
waves  in  little  splashes,  as  if  someone  had  gone  along  and  the 
light  had  spilled  from  her  pail  as  she  walked. 

The  breakers  ran  down  the  shore  in  long,  hoarse  strokes. 
Tiny  seagulls,  like  specks  of  spray,  wheeled  above  the  line 
of  surf.  Their  crying  seemed  larger  than  they.  Far  away 
the  coast  reached  out,  and  melted  into  the  morning,  the  tus- 
socky  sandhills  seemed  to  sink  to  a  level  with  the  beach. 
Mablethorpe  was  tiny  on  their  right.  They  had  alone  the 
space  of  all  this  level  shore,  the  sea,  and  the  upcoming  sun, 
the  faint  noise  of  the  waters,  the  sharp  crying  of  the  gulls. 

They  had  a  warm  hollow  in  the  sandhills  where  the  wind 
did  not  come.  He  stood  looking  out  to  sea. 

"It's  very  fine,"  he  said. 

"Now  don't  get  sentimental,"  she  said. 

It  irritated  her  to  see  him  standing  gazing  at  the  sea,  like  a 
solitary  and  poetic  person.  He  laughed.  She  quickly  un- 
dressed. 


BAXTER  DAWES  419 

"There  are  some  fine  waves  this  morning,"  she  said  tri- 
umphantly. 

She  was  a  better  swimmer  than  he;  he  stood  idly  watch- 
ing her. 

"Aren't  you  coming?"  she  said. 
"In  a  minute,"  he  answered. 

She  was  white  and  velvet  skinned,  with  heavy  shoulders. 
A  little  wind,  coming  from  the  sea,  blew  across  her  body 
and  ruffled  her  hair. 

The  morning  was  of  a  lovely  limpid  gold  colour.  Veils  of 
shadow  seemed  to  be  drifting  away  on  the  north  and  the 
south.  Clara  stood  shrinking  slightly  from  the  touch  of 
the  wind,  twisting  her  hair.  The  sea-grass  rose  behind  the 
white  stripped  woman.  She  glanced  at  the  sea,  then  looked 
at  him.  He  was  watching  her  with  dark  eyes  which  she  loved 
and  could  not  understand.  She  hugged  her  breasts  between 
her  arms,  cringing,  laughing: 

"Oo,  it  will  be  so  cold!"  she  said. 

He  bent  forward  and  kissed  her,  held  her  suddenly  close, 
and  kissed  her  again.  She  stood  waiting.  He  looked  into  her 
eyes,  then  away  at  the  pale  sands. 

"Go,  then!"  he  said  quietly. 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  drew  him  against  her, 
kissed  him  passionately,  and  went,  saying: 
"But  you'll  come  in?" 
"In  a  minute." 

She  went  plodding  heavily  over  the  sand  that  was  soft 
as  velvet.  He,  on  the  sandhills,  watched  the  great  pale  coast 
envelop  her.  She  grew  smaller,  lost  proportion,  seemed  only 
like  a  large  white  bird  toiling  forward. 

"Not  much  more  than  a  big  white  pebble  on  the  beach, 
not  much  more  than  a  clot  of  foam  being  blown  and  rolled 
over  the  sand,"  he  said  to  himself. 

She  seemed  to  move  very  slowly  across  the  vast  sounding 
shore.  As  he  watched,  he  lost  her.  She  was  dazzled  out  of 
sight  by  the  sunshine.  Again  he  saw  her,  the  merest  white 
speck  moving  against  the  white,  muttering  sea-edge. 

"Look  how  little  she  is!"  he  said  to  himself.  "She's  lost  like 


42 O  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

a  grain  of  sand  in  the  beach— just  a  concentrated  speck  blown 
along,  a  tiny  white  foam-bubble,  almost  nothing  among  the 
morning.  Why  does  she  absorb  me?" 

The  morning  was  altogether  uninterrupted:  she  was  gone 
in  the  water.  Far  and  wide  the  beach,  the  sandhills  with  their 
r>lue  marrain,  the  shining  water,  glowed  together  in  immense, 
unbroken  solitude. 

"What  is  she,  after  all?"  he  said  to  himself.  "Here's  the 
sea-coast  morning,  big  and  permanent  and  beautiful;  there 
is  she,  fretting,  always  unsatisfied,  and  temporary  as  a  bubble 
of  foam.  What  does  she  mean  to  me,  after  all?  She  represents 
something,  like  a  bubble  of  foam  represents  the  sea.  But  what 
is  she?  It's  not  her  I  care  for." 

Then,  startled  by  his  own  unconscious  thoughts,  that 
seemed  to  speak  so  distinctly  that  all  the  morning  could 
hear,  he  undressed  and  ran  quickly  down  the  sands.  She 
was  watching  for  him.  Her  arm  flashed  up  to  him,  she  heaved 
on  a  wave,  subsided,  her  shoulders  in  a  pool  of  liquid  silver. 
He  jumped  through  the  breakers,  and  in  a  moment  her  hand 
was  on  his  shoulder. 

He  was  a  poor  swimmer,  and  could  not  stay  long  in  the 
water.  She  played  round  him  in  triumph,  sporting  with  her 
superiority,  which  he  begrudged  her.  The  sunshine  stood 
deep  and  fine  on  the  water.  They  laughed  in  the  sea  for  a 
minute  or  two,  then  raced  each  other  back  to  the  sandhills. 

When  they  were  drying  themselves,  panting  heavily,  he 
watched  her  laughing,  breathless  face,  her  bright  shoulders, 
her  breasts  that  swayed  and  made  him  frightened  as  she 
rubbed  them^  and  he  thought  again: 

"But  she  is  magnificent,  and  even  bigger  than  the  morning 
and  the  sea.  Is  she—?  is  she—?" 

She,  seeing  his  dark  eyes  fixed  on  her,  broke  off  from  her 
drying  with  a  laugh. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  she  said. 

"You,"  he  answered,  laughing. 

Her  eyes  met  his,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  kissing  her 
white  "goose-fleshed"  shoulder,  and  thinking: 
"What  is  she?  What  is  she?" 


BAXTER  DAWES  42  I 

She  loved  him  in  the  morning.  There  was  something  de- 
tached, hard,  and  elemental  about  his  kisses  then,  as  if  he 
were  only  conscious  of  his  own  will,  not  in  the  least  of  her 
and  her  wanting  him. 

Later  in  the  day  he  went  out  sketching. 

"You,"  he  said  to  her,  "go  with  your  mother  to  Sutton. 
I  am  so  dull." 

She  stood  and  looked  at  him.  He  knew  she  wanted  to 
come  with  him,  but  he  preferred  to  be  alone.  She  made  him 
feel  imprisoned  when  she  was  there,  as  if  he  could  not  get  a 
free  deep  breath,  as  if  there  were  something  on  top  of  him. 
She  felt  his  desire  to  be  free  of  her. 

In  the  evening  he  came  back  to  her.  They  walked  dowiv 
the  shore  in  the  darkness,  then  sat  for  awhile  in  the  shelter 
of  the  sandhills. 

"It  seems,"  she  said,  as  they  stared  over  the  darkness  of 
the  sea,  where  no  light  was  to  be  seen— "it  seemed  as  if  you 
only  loved  me  at  night— as  if  you  didn't  love  me  in  the 
daytime." 

He  ran  the  cold  sand  through  his  fingers,  feeling  guilty 
under  the  accusation. 

"The  night  is  free  to  you,"  he  replied.  "In  the  daytime  I 
want  to  be  by  myself." 

"But  why?"  she  said.  "Why,  even  now,  when  we  are  on 
this  short  holiday?" 

"I  don't  know.  Love-making  stifles  me  in  the  daytime." 

"But  it  needn't  be  always  love-making,"  she  said. 

"It  always  is,"  he  answered,  "when  you  and  I  are  to- 
gether." 

She  sat  feeling  very  bitter. 

"Do  you  ever  want  to  marry  me?"  he  asked  curiously. 
"Do  you  me?"  she  replied. 

"Yes,  yes;  I  should  like  us  to  have  children,"  he  answered 
slowly. 

She  sat  with  her  head  bent,  fingering  the  sand. 
"But  you  don't  really  want  a  divorce  from  Baxter,  do 
you?"  he  said. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  she  replied. 


42  2  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"No,"  she  said,  very  deliberately;  "I  don't  think  I  do." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Do  you  feel  as  if  you  belonged  to  him?" 
"No;  I  don't  think  so." 
"What,  then?" 

"I  think  he  belongs  to  me,"  she  replied. 

He  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  listening  to  the  wind 
blowing  over  the  hoarse,  dark  sea. 

"And  you  never  really  intended  to  belong  to  me}"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  I  do  belong  to  you,"  she  answered. 

"No,"  he  said;  "because  you  don't  want  to  be  divorced." 

It  was  a  knot  they  could  not  untie,  so  they  left  it,  took 
what  they  could  get,  and  what  they  could  not  attain  they 
ignored. 

"I  consider  you  treated  Baxter  rottenly,"  he  said  another 
time. 

He  half  expected  Clara  to  answer  him,  as  his  mother 
would:  "You  consider  your  own  affairs,  and  don't  know  so 
much  about  other  people's."  But  she  took  him  seriously, 
almost  to  his  own  surprise. 

"Why?"  she  said. 

"I  suppose  you  thought  he  was  a  lily  of  the  valley,  and 
so  you  put  him  in  an  appropriate  pot,  and  tended  him  ac- 
cording. You  made  up  your  mind  he  was  a  lily  of  the  valley, 
an  i  it  was  no  good  his  being  a  cow-parsnip.  You  wouldn't 
have  it." 

"I  certainly  never  imagined  him  a  lily  of  the  valley." 

"You  imagined  him  something  he  wasn't.  That's  just  what 
a  woman  is.  She  thinks  she  knows  what's  good  for  a  man, 
and  she's  going  to  see  he  gets  it;  and  no  matter  if  he's  starv- 
ing, he  may  sit  and  whistle  for  what  he  needs,  while  she's 
got  him,  and  is  giving  him  what's  good  for  him." 

"And  what  are  you  doing?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  thinking  what  tune  I  shall  whistle,"  he  laughed. 

And  instead  of  boxing  his  ears,  she  considered  him  in 
earnest. 


BAXTER  DAWES  42  J 

"You  think  I  want  to  give  you  what's  good  for  you?"  shcs 
asked. 

"I  hope  so;  but  love  should  give  a  sense  of  freedom,  not  of 
prison.  Miriam  made  me  feel  tied  up  like  a  donkey  to  a  stake. 
I  must  feed  on  her  patch,  and  nowhere  else.  It's  sickening! " 

"And  would  you  let  a  woman  do  as  she  likes?" 

"Yes;  I'll  see  that  she  likes  to  love  me.  If  she  doesn't— well, 
I  don't  hold  her." 

"If  you  were  as  wonderful  as  you  say—,"  replied  Clara. 

"I  should  be  the  marvel  I  am,"  he  laughed. 

There  was  a  silence  in  which  they  hated  each  other,  m 
though  they  laughed. 

"Love's  a  dog  in  the  manger,"  he  said. 

"And  which  of  us  is  the  dog?" 

"Oh  well,  you,  of  course." 

So  there  went  on  a  battle  between  them.  She  knew  she 
never  fully  had  him.  Some  part,  big  and  vital  in  him,  she 
had  no  hold  over;  nor  did  she  ever  try  to  get  it,  or  even  to 
realize  what  it  was.  And  he  knew  in  some  way  that  she  held 
herself  still  as  Mrs.  Dawes.  She  did  not  love  Dawes,  never 
had  loved  him;  but  she  believed  he  loved  her,  at  least  de- 
pended on  her.  She  felt  a  certain  surety  about  him  that  she 
never  felt  with  Paul  Morel.  Her  passion  for  the  young  man 
had  filled  her  soul,  given  her  a  certain  satisfaction,  eased 
her  of  her  self-mistrust,  her  doubt.  Whatever  else  she  was; 
she  was  inwardly  assured.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  had  gained 
herself,  and  stood  now  distinct  and  complete.  She  had  re- 
ceived her  confirmation;  but  she  never  believed  that  her  life 
belonged  to  Paul  Morel,  nor  his  to  her.  They  would  separate 
in  the  end,  and  the  rest  of  her  life  would  be  an  ache  after 
him.  But  at  any  rate,  she  knew  now,  she  was  sure  of  herself. 
And  the  same  could  almost  be  said  of  him.  Together  they 
had  received  the  baptism  of  life,  each  through  the  other; 
but  now  their  missions  were  separate.  Where  he  wanted  to 
go  she  could  not  come  with  him.  They  would  have  to  part 
sooner  or  later.  Even  if  they  married,  and  were  faithful  to 
each  other,  still  he  would  have  to  leave  her,  go  on  alone, 
and  she  would  only  have  to  attend  to  him  when  he  came 


424  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

home.  But  it  was  not  possible.  Each  wanted  a  mate  to  go  side 
by  side  with. 

Clara  had  gone  to  live  with  her  mother  upon  Mapperley 
Plains.  One  evening,  as  Paul  and  she  were  walking  along 
Woodborough  Road,  they  met  Dawes.  Morel  knew  some- 
thing about  the  bearing  of  the  man  approaching,  but  he  was 
absorbed  in  his  thinking  at  the  moment,  so  that  only  his 
artist's  eve  watched  the  form  of  the  stranger.  Then  he  sud- 
denlv  turned  to  Clara  with  a  laugh,  and  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  saying,  laughing: 

"But  we  walk  side  by  side,  and  yet  I'm  in  London  arguing 
with  an  imaginary  Orpen;  and  where  are  you?" 

At  that  instant  Dawes  passed,  almost  touching  Morel.  The 
young  man  glanced,  saw  the  dark  brown  eyes  burning,  full 
of  hate  and  yet  tired. 

"Who  was  that?"  he  asked  of  Clara. 

"It  was  Baxter,"  she  replied. 

Paul  took  his  hand  from  her  shoulder  and  glanced  round; 
then  he  saw  again  distinctly  the  man's  form  as  it  approached 
him.  Dawes  still  walked  erect,  with  his  fine  shoulders  flung 
back,  and  his  face  lifted;  but  there  was  a  furtive  look  in  his 
eves  that  gave  one  the  impression  he  was  trying  to  get  un- 
noticed past  every  person  he  met,  glancing  suspiciously  to 
see  what  thev  thought  of  him.  And  his  hands  seemed  to  be 
wanting  to  hide.  He  wore  old  clothes,  the  trousers  were  torn 
at  the  knee,  and  the  handkerchief  tied  round  his  throat  was 
dirtv ;  but  his  cap  was  still  defiantly  over  one  eye.  As  she 
saw  him,  Clara  felt  guilty.  There  was  a  tiredness  and  despair- 
on  his  face  that  made  her  hate  him,  because  it  hurt  her. 

"He  looks  shady,"  said  Paul. 

But  the  note  of  pity  in  his  voice  reproached  her,  and  made 
her  feel  hard. 

"His  true  commonness  comes  out,"  she  answered. 
"Do  you  hate  him?"  he  asked. 

"You  talk/'  she  said,  "about  the  cruelty  of  women;  1 
wish  vou  knew  the  cruelty  of  men  in  their  brute  force.  They 
simply  don't  know  that  the  woman  exists." 

"Don't  IT  he  said. 


BAXTER  DAWES  425 

"No,"  she  answered. 
"Don't  I  know  you  exist?" 

"About  me  you  know  nothing,"  she  said  bitterly— "about 
me!" 

"Not  more  than  Baxter  knew?"  he  asked. 
"Perhaps  not  as  much." 

He  felt  puzzled,  and  helpless,  and  angry.  There  she 
walked,  unknown  to  him,  though  they  had  been  through 
such  experience  together. 

"But  you  know  me  pretty  well,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Did  you  know  Baxter  as  well  as  you  know  me?"  he 
asked. 

"He  wouldn't  let  me,"  she  said. 
"And  I  have  let  you  know  me? " 

"It's  what  men  'worUt  let  you  do.  They  won't  let  you  get 
really  near  to  them,"  she  said. 
"And  haven't  I  let  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  slowly;  "but  you've  never  come  near 
to  me.  You  can't  come  out  of  yourself,  you  can't.  Baxte* 
could  do  that  better  than  you." 

He  walked  on  pondering.  He  was  angry  with  her  for  pre- 
ferring Baxter  to  him. 

"You  begin  to  value  Baxter  now  you've  not  got  him,"  he 
said. 

"No;  I  can  only  see  where  he  was  different  from  you." 

But  he  felt  she  had  a  grudge  against  him. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  coming  home  over  the  fields, 
she  startled  him  by  asking: 

"Do  you  think  it's  worth  it— the— the  sex  part?" 

"The  act  of  loving,  itself?" 

"Yes;  is  it  worth  anything  to  you?" 

"But  how  can  you  separate  it?"  he  said.  "It's  the  cul- 
mination of  everything.  All  our  intimacy  culminates  then." 

"Not  for  me,"  she  said. 

He  was  silent.  A  flash  of  hate  for  her  came  up.  After  alL 
she  was  dissatisfied  with  him,  even  there,  where  he  thought 
they  fulfilled  each  other.  But  he  believed  her  too  implicitly. 


jp6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"I  feel,"  she  continued  slowly,  "as  if  I  hadn't  got  you,  as 
if  all  of  you  weren't  there,  and  as  if  it  weren't  me  you  were 
taking  — " 

"Who,  then?" 

"Something  just  for  yourself.  It  has  been  fine,  so  that  I 
daren't  think  of  it.  But  is  it  me  you  want,  or  is  it  It?" 

He  again  felt  guilty.  Did  he  leave  Clara  out  of  count,  and 
take  simply  woman?  But  he  thought  that  was  splitting  a 
hair. 

"When  I  had  Baxter,  actually  had  him,  then  I  did  feel  as 
if  I  had  all  of  him,"  she  said. 
"And  it  was  better?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  yes;  it  was  more  whole.  I  don't  say  you  haven't  given 
me  more  than  he  ever  gave  me." 
"Or  could  give  you." 

"Yes,  perhaps;  but  you've  never  given  me  yourself." 
He  knitted  his  brows  angrily. 

"If  I  start  to  make  love  to  you,"  he  said,  "I  just  go  like 
%  leaf  down  the  wind." 

"And  leave  me  out  of  count,"  she  said. 

"And  then  is  it  nothing  to  you?"  he  asked,  almost  rigid 
"With  chagrin. 

"It's  something;  and  sometimes  you  have  carried  me  away 
•^-right  away— I  know— and— I  reverence  you  for  it— but  " 

"Don't  'but'  me,"  he  said,  kissing  her  quickly,  as  a  fire  ran 
through  him. 

She  submitted,  and  was  silent. 

It  was  true  as  he  said.  As  a  rule,  when  he  started  love- 
making,  the  emotion  was  strong  enough  to  carry  with  it 
everything— reason,  soul,  blood— in  a  great  sweep,  like  the 
Trent  carries  bodily  its  back-swirls  and  intertwinings,  noise- 
lessly. Gradually,  the  little  criticisms,  the  little  sensations, 
were  lost,  thought  also  went,  everything  borne  along  in  one 
flood.  He  became,  not  a  man  with  a  mind,  but  a  great 
instinct.  His  hands  were  like  creatures,  living;  his  limbs,  his 
body,  were  all  life  and  consciousness,  subject  to  no  will  of 
his,  but  living  in  themselves.  Just  as  he  was,  so  it  seemed  the 
vigorous,  wintry  stars  were  strong  also  with  life.  He  and 


BAXTER  DAWES  427 

they  struck  with  the  same  pulse  of  fire,  and  the  same  joy  of 
strength  which  held  the  bracken-frond  stiff  near  his  eyes 
held  his  own  body  firm.  It  was  as  if  he,  and  the  stars,  and 
the  dark  herbage,  and  Clara  were  licked  up  in  an  immense 
tongue  of  flame,  which  tore  onwards  and  upwards.  Every- 
thing rushed  along  in  living  beside  him;  everything  was  still, 
perfect  in  itself,  along  with  him.  This  wonderful  stillness 
in  each  thing  in  itself,  while  it  was  being  borne  along  in  a 
very  ecstasy  of  living,  seemed  the  highest  point  of  bliss. 

And  Clara  knew  this  held  him  to  her,  so  she  trusted  alto- 
gether to  the  passion.  It,  however,  failed  her  very  often. 
They  did  not  often  reach  again  the  height  of  that  once 
when  the  peewits  had  called.  Gradually,  some  mechanical 
effort  spoilt  their  loving,  or,  when  they  had  splendid  mo- 
ments, they  had  them  separately,  and  not  so  satisfactorily. 
So  often  he  seemed  merely  to  be  running  on  alone;  often 
they  realized  it  had  been  a  failure,  not  what  they  had 
wanted.  He  left  her,  knowing  that  evening  had  only  made  a 
little  split  between  them.  Their  loving  grew  more  mechani- 
cal, without  the  marvellous  glamour.  Gradually  they  began 
to  introduce  novelties,  to  get  back  some  of  the  feeling  of 
satisfaction.  They  would  be  very  near,  almost  dangerously 
near  to  the  river,  so  that  the  black  water  ran  not  far  from 
his  face,  and  it  gave  a  little  thrill;  or  they  loved  sometimes 
in  a  little  hollow  below  the  fence  of  the  path  where  people 
were  passing  occasionally,  on  the  edge  of  the  town,  and  they 
heard  footsteps  coming,  almost  felt  the  vibration  of  the  tread, 
and  they  heard  what  the  passers-by  said— strange  little  things 
that  were  never  intended  to  be  heard.  And  afterwards  each 
of  them  was  rather  ashamed,  and  these  things  caused  a  dis- 
tance between  the  two  of  them.  He  began  to  despise  her  a 
little,  as  if  she  had  merited  it! 

One  night  he  left  her  to  go  to  Daybrook  Station  over  the 
fields.  It  was  very  dark,  with  an  attempt  at  snow,  although 
the  spring  was  so  far  advanced.  Morel  had  not  much  time; 
he  plunged  forward.  The  town  ceases  almost  abruptly  on  the 
edge  of  a  steep  hollow;  there  the  houses  with  their  yellow 
lights  stand  up  against  the  darkness.  He  went  over  the  stile, 


428  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

and  dropped  quickly  into  the  hollow  of  the  fields.  Under  the 
orchard  one  warm  window  shone  in  Swineshead  Farm.  Paul 
glanced  round.  Behind,  the  houses  stood  on  the  brim  of  the 
dip,  black  against  the  sky,  like  wild  beasts  glaring  curiously 
with  yellow  eyes  down  into  the  darkness.  It  was  the  town 
that  seemed  savage  and  uncouth,  glaring  on  the  clouds  at 
the  back  of  him.  Some  creature  stirred  under  the  willows 
of  the  farm  pond.  It  was  too  dark  to  distinguish  anything. 

He  was  close  up  to  the  next  stile  before  he  saw  a  dark 
shape  leaning  against  it.  The  man  moved  aside. 

"Good-evening! "  he  said. 

"Good-evening!"  Morel  answered,  not  noticing. 
"Paul  Morel?"  said  the  man. 

Then  he  knew  it  was  Dawes.  The  man  stopped  his  way. 
"I've  got  yer,  have  I?"  he  said  awkwardly. 
"I  shall  miss  my  train,"  said  Paul. 

He  could  see  nothing  of  Dawes'  face.  The  man's  teeth 
seemed  to  chatter  as  he  talked. 

"You're  going  to  get  it  from  me  now,"  said  Dawes. 

Morel  attempted  to  move  forward;  the  other  man  stepped 
in  front  of  him. 

aAre  yer  goin'  to  take  that  top-coat  off,"  he  said,  "or  are 
you  goin'  to  lie  down  to  it?" 

Paul  was  afraid  the  man  was  mad. 

"But,"  he  said,  UI  don't  know  how  to  fight." 

"All  right,  then,"  answered  Dawes,  and  before  the 
younger  man  knew  where  he  was  he  was  staggering  back- 
V/ards  from  a  blow  across  the  face. 

The  whole  night  went  black.  He  tore  off  his  overcoat 
and  coat,  dodging  a  blow,  and  flung  the  garments  over 
Dawes.  The  latter  swore  savagely.  Morel,  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
was  now  alert  and  furious.  He  felt  his  whole  body  unsheath 
itself  like  a  claw.  He  could  not  fight,  so  he  would  use  his 
Wits.  The  other  man  became  more  distinct  to  him;  he  could 
See  particularly  the  shirt-breast.  Dawes  stumbled  over  Paul's 
coats,  then  came  rushing  forward.  The  young  man's  mouth 
was  bleeding.  It  was  the  other  man's  mouth  he  was  dying 
to  get  at,  and  the  desire  was  anguish  in  its  strength.  He 


BAXTER  DAWES  429 

stepped  quickly  through  the  stile,  and  as  Dawes  was  coming 
through  after  him,  like  a  flash  he  got  a  blow  in  over  the 
other's  mouth.  He  shivered  with  pleasure.  Dawes  advanced 
slowly,  spitting.  Paul  was  afraid;  he  moved  round  to  get  to 
the  stile  again.  Suddenly,  from  out  of  nowhere,  came  a  great 
blow  against  his  ear,  that  sent  him  falling  helpless  backwards. 
He  heard  Dawes'  heavy  panting,  like  a  wild  beast's;  then 
came  a  kick  on  his  knee,  giving  him  such  agony  that  he  got 
up  and,  quite  blind  leapt  clean  under  his  enemy's  guard. 
He  felt  blows  and  kicks,  but  they  did  not  hurt.  Fie  hung  on 
to  the  bigger  man  like  a  wild  cat,  till  at  last  Dawes  fell  with 
a  crash,  losing  his  presence  of  mind.  Paul  went  down  with 
him.  Pure  instinct  brought  his  hands  to  the  man's  neck,  and 
before  Dawes,  in  frenzy  and  agony,  could  wrench  him  free, 
he  had  got  his  fists  twisted  in  the  scarf  and  his  knuckles  dug 
in  the  throat  of  the  other  man.  He  was  a  pure  instinct,  with- 
out reason  or  feeling.  His  body,  hard  and  wonderful  in 
itself,  cleaved  against  the  struggling  body  of  the  other  man; 
not  a  muscle  in  him  relaxed.  He  was  quite  unconscious,  only 
his  body  had  taken  upon  itself  to  kill  this  other  man.  For 
himself,  he  had  neither  feeling  nor  reason.  He  lay  pressed 
hard  against  his  adversary,  his  body  adjusting  itself  to  its 
one  pure  purpose  of  choking  the  other  man,  resisting  exactly 
at  the  right  moment,  with  exactly  the  right  amount  of 
strength,  the  struggles  of  the  other,  silent,  intent,  unchang- 
ing, gradually  pressing  its  knuckles  deeper,  feeling  the  strug- 
gles of  the  other  body  become  wilder  and  more  frenzied. 
Tighter  and  tighter  grew  his  body,  like  a  screw  that  is 
gradually  increasing  in  pressure,  till  something  breaks. 

Then  suddenly  he  relaxed,  full  of  wonder  and  misgiving. 
Dawes  had  been  yielding.  Morel  felt  his  body  flame  with 
pain,  as  he  realized  what  he  was  doing;  he  was  all  bewildered. 
Dawes'  struggles  suddenly  renewed  themselves  in  a  furious 
spasm.  Paul's  hands  were  wrenched,  torn  out  of  the  scarf  in 
which  they  were  knotted,  and  he  was  flung  away,  helpless. 
He  heard  the  horrid  sound  of  the  other's  gasping,  but  he  lay 
stunned;  then,  still  dazed,  he  felt  the  blows  of  the  other's 
feet,  and  lost  consciousness. 


430  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Dawes,  grunting  with  pain  like  a  beast,  was  kicking  the 
prostrate  body  of  his  rival.  Suddenly  the  whistle  of  the  train 
shrieked  two  fields  away.  He  turned  round  and  glared  sus- 
piciously. What  was  coming?  He  saw  the  lights  of  the  train 
draw  across  his  vision.  It  seemed  to  him  people  were  ap- 
proaching. He  made  off  across  the  field  into  Nottingham, 
and  dimly  in  his  consciousness  as  he  went,  he  felt  on  his  foot 
the  place  where  his  boot  had  knocked  against  one  of  the 
lad's  bones.  The  knock  seemed  to  re-echo  inside  him;  he 
hurried  to  get  away  from  it. 

Morel  gradually  came  to  himself.  He  knew  where  he  was 
and  what  had  happened,  but  he  did  not  want  to  move.  He 
lay  still,  with  tiny  bits  of  snow  tickling  his  face.  It  was  pleas- 
ant to  lie  quite,  quite  still.  The  time  passed.  It  was  the  bits  of 
snow  that  kept  rousing  him  when  he  did  not  want  to  be 
roused.  At  last  his  will  clicked  into  action. 

"I  mustn't  lie  here,"  he  said;  "it's  silly." 

But  still  he  did  not  move. 

"I  said  I  was  going  to  get  up,"  he  repeated.  "Why  don't 
I?" 

And  still  it  was  some  time  before  he  had  sufficiently  pulled 
himself  together  to  stir;  then  gradually  he  got  up.  Pain  made 
him  sick  and  dazed,  but  his  brain  was  clear.  Reeling,  he 
groped  for  his  coats  and  got  them  on,  buttoning  his  overcoat 
up  to  his  ears.  It  was  some  time  before  he  found  his  cap.  He 
did  not  know  whether  his  face  was  still  bleeding.  Walking 
blindly,  every  step  making  him  sick  with  pain,  he  went  back 
to  the  pond  and  washed  his  face  and  hands.  The  icy  water 
hurt,  but  helped  to  bring  him  back  to  himself.  He  crawled 
back  up  the  hill  to  the  tram.  He  wanted  to  get  to  his  mother 
—he  must  get  to  his  mother— that  was  his  blind  intention.  He 
covered  his  face  as  much  as  he  could,  and  struggled  sickly 
along.  Continually  the  ground  seemed  to  fall  away  from  him 
as  he  walked,  and  he  felt  himself  dropping  with  a  sickening 
feeling  into  space;  so,  like  a  nightmare,  he  got  through  with 
the  journey  home. 

Everybody  was  in  bed.  He  looked  at  himself.  His  face  was 
discoloured  and  smeared  with  blood,  almost  like  a  dead 


BAXTER  DAWES  /31 

man's  face.  He  washed  it,  and  went  to  bed.  The  night  went 
by  in  delirium.  In  the  morning  he  found  his  mother  looking 
at  him.  Her  blue  eyes— they  were  all  he  wanted  to  see.  She 
was  there;  he  was  in  her  hands. 

"It's  not  much,  mother,"  he  said.  "It  was  Baxter  Dawes.'; 

"Tell  me  where  it  hurts  you,"  she  said  quietly. 

"I  don't  know— my  shoulder.  Say  it  was  a  bicycle-accident 
mother." 

He  could  not  move  his  arm.  Presently  Minnie,  the  little 
servant,  came  upstairs  with  some  tea. 

"Your  mother's  nearly  frightened  me  out  of  my  wits- 
fainted  away,"  she  said. 

He  felt  he  could  not  bear  it.  His  mother  nursed  him;  he 
told  her  about  it. 

"And  now  I  should  have  done  with  them  all,"  she  said 
quietly. 

"I  will,  mother." 

She  covered  him  up. 

"And  don't  think  about  it,"  she  said— "only  try  to  go  t^ 
sleep.  The  doctor  won't  be  here  till  eleven." 

He  had  a  dislocated  shoulder,  and  the  second  day  acute 
bronchitis  set  in.  His  mother  was  pale  as  death  now,  and 
very  thin.  She  would  sit  and  look  at  him,  then  away  into 
space.  There  was  something  between  them  that  neither 
dared  mention.  Clara  came  to  see  him.  Afterwards  he  said  to 
his  mother: 

"She  makes  me  tired,  mother." 

"Yes;  I  wish  she  wouldn't  come,"  Mrs.  Morel  replied. 

Another  day  Miriam  came,  but  she  seemed  almost  like  a 
stranger  to  him. 

"You  know,  I  don't  care  about  them,  mother,"  he  said. 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't,  my  son,"  she  replied  sadly. 

It  was  given  out  everywhere  that  it  was  a  bicycle  accident. 
Soon  he  was  able  to  go  to  work  again,  but  now  there  was  a 
constant  sickness  and  gnawing  at  his  heart.  He  went  to  Clara, 
but  there  seemed,  as  it  were,  nobody  there.  He  could  not 
work.  He  and  his  mother  seemed  almost  to  avoid  each  other. 
There  was  some  secret  between  them  which  they  could  not 


432  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

bear.  He  was  not  aware  of  it.  He  only  knew  that  his  life 
seemed  unbalanced,  as  if  it  were  going  to  smash  into  pieces. 

Clara  did  not  know  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  She 
realized  that  he  seemed  unaware  of  her.  Even  when  he  came 
to  her  he  seemed  unaware  of  her;  also  he  was  somewhere 
else.  She  felt  she  was  clutching  for  him,  and  he  was  some- 
where else.  It  tortured  her,  and  so  she  tortured  him.  For  a 
month  at  a  time  she  kept  him  at  arm's  length.  He  almost 
hated  her,  and  was  driven  to  her  in  spite  of  himself.  He  went 
mostly  into  the  company  of  men,  was  always  at  the  George 
or  the  White  Horse.  His  mother  was  ill,  distant,  quiet, 
shadowy.  He  was  terrified  of  something;  he  dared  not  look 
at  her.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  grow  darker,  her  face  more 
waxen;  still  she  dragged  about  at  her  work. 

At  Whitsuntide  he  said  he  would  go  to  Blackpool  for  four 
days  with  his  friend  Newton.  The  latter  was  a  big,  jolly 
fellow,  with  a  touch  of  the  bounder  about  him.  Paul  said 
his  mother  must  go  to  Sheffield  to  stay  a  week  with  Annie, 
who  lived  there.  Perhaps  the  change  would  do  her  good. 
Mrs.  Morel  was  attending  a  woman's  doctor  in  Nottingham. 
He  said  her  heart  and  her  digestion  were  wrong.  She  con- 
sented to  go  to  Sheffield,  though  she  did  not  want  to;  but 
now  she  would  do  everything  her  son  wished  of  her.  Paul 
said  he  would  come  for  her  on  the  fifth  day,  and  stay  also  in 
Sheffield  till  the  holiday  was  up.  It  was  agreed. 

The  two  young  men  set  off  gaily  for  Blackpool.  Mrs. 
Morel  was  quite  lively  as  Paul  kissed  her  and  left  her.  Once 
at  the  station,  he  forgot  everything.  Four  days  were  clear- 
not  an  anxiety,  not  a  thought.  The  two  young  men  simply 
enjoyed  themselves.  Paul  was  like  another  man.  None  of  him- 
self remained— no  Clara,  no  Miriam,  no  mother  that  fretted 
him.  He  wrote  to  them  all,  and  long  letters  to  his  mother; 
but  they  were  jolly  letters  that  made  her  laugh.  He  was  hav- 
ing a  good  time,  as  young  fellows  will  in  a  place  like  Black- 
pool. And  underneath  it  all  was  a  shadow  for  her. 

Paul  was  very  gay,  excited  at  the  thought  of  staying  with 
his  mother  in  Sheffield.  Newton  was  to  spend  the  day  with 
them.  Their  train  was  late.  Joking,  laughing,  with  their 


BAXTER  DAWES  433 

pipes  between  their  teeth,  the  young  men  swung  their  bags 
on  to  the  tram-car.  Paul  had  bought  his  mother  a  little  collar 
of  real  lace  that  he  wanted  to  see  her  wear,  so  that  he  could 
tease  her  about  it. 

Annie  lived  in  a  nice  house,  and  had  a  little  maid.  Paul 
ran  gaily  up  the  steps.  He  expected  his  mother  laughing  in 
the  hall,  but  it  was  Annie  who  opened  to  him.  She  seemed 
distant  to  him.  He  stood  a  second  in  dismay.  Annie  let  him 
kiss  her  cheek. 

"Is  my  mother  ill?"  he  said. 

"Yes;  she's  not  very  well.  Don't  upset  her." 

"Is  she  in  bed?" 

"Yes." 

And  then  the  queer  feeling  went  over  him,  as  if  all  the 
sunshine  had  gone  out  of  him,  and  it  was  all  shadow.  He 
dropped  the  bag  and  ran  upstairs.  Hesitating,  he  opened  the 
door.  His  mother  sat  up  in  bed,  wearing  a  dressing-gown  of 
old  rose  colour.  She  looked  at  him  almost  as  if  she  were 
ashamed  of  herself,  pleading  to  him,  humble.  He  saw  the 
ashy  look  about  her. 

"Mother!"  he  said. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  she  answered  gaily. 

But  he  only  fell  on  his  knees  at  the  bedside,  and  buried 
his  face  in  the  bedclothes,  crying  in  agony,  and  saying: 

"Mother— mother— mother! " 

She  stroked  his  hair  slowly  with  her  thin  hand. 

"Don't  cry,"  she  said.  "Don't  cry— it's  nothing." 

But  he  felt  as  if  his  blood  was  melting  into  tears,  and 
he  cried  in  terror  and  pain. 

"Don't— don't  cry,"  his  mother  faltered. 

Slowly  she  stroked  his  hair.  Shocked  out  of  himself,  he 
cried,  and  the  tears  hurt  in  every  fibre  of  his  body.  Suddenly 
he  stopped,  but  he  dared  not  lift  his  face  out  of  the  bed- 
clothes. 

"You  are  late.  Where  have  you  been?"  his  mother  asked 
"The  train  was  late,"  he  replied,  muffled  in  the  sheet. 
"Yes;  that  miserable  Central!  Is  Newton  come?" 
<Tes." 


434  S0NS  AND  lott3rs 

"I'm  sure  you  must  be  hungry,  and  they've  kept  dinner 
waiting." 

With  a  wrench  he  looked  up  at  her. 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  he  asked  brutally. 

She  averted  her  eyes  as  she  answered: 

"Only  a  bit  of  a  tumour,  my  boy.  You  needn't  trouble. 
It's  been  there— the  lump  has— a  long  time." 

Up  came  the  tears  again.  His  mind  was  clear  and  hard, 
but  his  body  was  crying. 

"Where?"  he  said. 

She  put  her  hand  on  her  side. 

"Here.  But  you  know  they  can  sweal  a  tumour  away." 

He  stood  feeling  dazed  and  helpless,  like  a  child.  He 
thought  perhaps  it  was  as  she  said.  Yes;  he  reassured  himself 
it  was  so.  But  all  the  while  his  blood  and  his  body  knew  defi- 
nitely what  it  was.  He  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and  took  her 
hand.  She  had  never  had  but  the  one  ring— her  wedding- 
ring. 

"When  were  you  poorly?"  he  asked. 

"It  was  yesterday  it  began,"  she  answered  submissively. 

"Pains!" 

"Yes;  but  not  more  than  I've  often  had  at  home.  I  believe 
Dr.  Ansell  is  an  alarmist." 

"You  ought  not  to  have  travelled  alone,"  he  said,  to  him- 
self more  than  to  her. 

"As  if  that  had  anything  to  do  with  it!"  she  answered 
quickly. 

They  were  silent  for  a  while. 

"Now  go  and  have  your  dinner,"  she  said.  "You  must  be 
hungry." 

"Have  you  had  yours?" 

"Yes;  a  beautiful  sole  I  had.  Annie  is  good  to  me." 

They  talked  a  little  while,  then  he  went  downstairs.  He 
was  very  white  and  strained.  Newton  sat  in  miserable  sym- 
pathy. 

After  dinner  he  went  into  the  scullery  to  help  Annie  to 
wash  up.  The  little  maid  had  gone  on  an  errand. 
"Is  it  really  a  tumour?"  he  asked. 


BAXTER  DAWES  435 

Annie  began  to  cry  again. 

"The  pain  she  had  yesterday—I  never  saw  anybody  suffer 
like  it!"  she  cried.  "Leonard  ran  like  a  madman  for  Dr. 
Ansell,  and  when  she'd  got  to  bed  she  said  to  me:  'Annie, 
look  at  this  lump  on  my  side.  I  wonder  what  it  is?'  And 
there  I  looked,  and  I  thought  I  should  have  dropped.  Paul, 
as  true  as  I'm  here,  it's  a  lump  as  big  as  my  double  fist.  I  said: 
'Good  gracious,  mother,  whenever  did  that  come?'  'Why, 
child,'  she  said,  'it's  been  there  a  long  time.'  I  thought  I 
should  have  died,  our  Paul,  I  did.  She's  been  having  these 
pains  for  months  at  home,  and  nobody  looking  after  her." 

The  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  then  dried  suddenly. 

"But  she's  been  attending  the  doctor  in  Nottingham— and 
she  never  told  me,"  he  said. 

"If  I'd  have  been  at  home,"  said  Annie,  "I  should  have 
seen  for  myself." 

He  felt  like  a  man  walking  in  unrealities.  In  the  afternoon 
he  went  to  see  the  doctor.  The  latter  was  a  shrewd,  lovable 
man. 

"But  what  is  it?"  he  said. 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  young  man,  then  knitted  his 
fingers. 

"It  may  be  a  large  tumour  which  has  formed  in  the  mem- 
brane," he  said  slowly,  "and  which  we  may  be  able  to  mak«? 
go  away." 

"Can't  you  operate?"  asked  Paul. 

"Not  there,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Quite!" 

Paul  meditated  a  while. 

"Are  you  sure  it's  a  tumour?"  he  asked.  "Why  did  Dr, 
Jameson  in  Nottingham  never  find  out  anything  about  it? 
She's  been  going  to  him  for  weeks,  and  he's  treated  her  for 
heart  and  indigestion." 

"Mrs.  Morel  never  told  Dr.  Jameson  about  the  lump,"  said 
the  doctor. 

"And  do  you  know  it's  a  tumour?" 

"No,  I  am  not  sure." 


43  6  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"What  else  might  it  be?  You  asked  my  sister  if  there  was 
cancer  in  the  family.  Might  it  be  cancer?" 
"I  don't  know." 
"And  what  shall  you  do?" 

"I  should  like  an  examination,  with  Dr.  Jameson." 
"Then  have  one." 

"You  must  arrange  about  that.  His  fee  wouldn't  be  less 
than  ten  guineas  to  come  here  from  Nottingham." 
"When  would  you  like  him  to  come?" 
"I  will  call  in  this  evening,  and  we  will  talk  it  over." 
Paul  went  away,  biting  his  lip. 

His  mother  could  come  downstairs  for  tea,  the  doctor 
said.  Her  son  went  upstairs  to  help  her.  She  wore  the  old- 
rose  dressing-gown  that  Leonard  had  given  Annie,  and,  with 
a  little  colour  in  her  face,  was  quite  young  again. 

"But  you  look  quite  pretty  in  that,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  they  make  me  so  fine,  I  hardly  know  myself,"  she 
answered. 

But  when  she  stood  up  to  walk,  the  colour  went.  Paul 
helped  her,  half  carrying  her.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs  she 
was  gone.  He  lifted  her  up  and  carried  her  quickly  down- 
stairs; laid  her  on  the  couch.  She  was  light  and  frail.  Her 
face  looked  as  if  she  were  dead,  with  the  blue  lips  shut 
tight.  Her  eyes  opened— her  blue,  unfailing  eyes— and 
she  looked  at  him  pleadingly,  almost  wanting  him  to  forgive 
her.  He  held  brandy  to  her  lips,  but  her  mouth  would  not 
open.  All  the  time  she  watched  him  lovingly.  She  was  only 
sorry  for  him.  The  tears  ran  down  his  face  without  ceasing, 
but  not  a  muscle  moved.  He  was  intent  on  getting  a  little 
brandy  between  her  lips.  Soon  she  was  able  to  swallow  a 
teaspoonful.  She  lay  back,  so  tired.  The  tears  continued  to 
run  down  his  face. 

"But,"  she  panted,  "it'll  go  off.  Don't  cry!" 

"I'm  not  doing,"  he  said. 

After  a  while  she  was  better  again.  He  was  kneeling  beside 
the  couch.  They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  make  a  trouble  of  it,"  she  said. 


BAXTER  DAWES  437 

"No,  mother.  You'll  have  to  be  quite  still,  and  then  you'll 
get  better  soon." 

But  he  was  white  to  the  lips,  and  their  eyes  as  they  looked 
at  each  other  understood.  Her  eyes  were  so  blue— such  a 
wonderful  forget-me-not  blue!  He  felt  if  only  they  had 
been  of  a  different  colour  he  could  have  borne  it  better. 
His  heart  seemed  to  be  ripping  slowly  in  his  breast.  He 
kneeled  there,  holding  her  hand,  and  neither  said  anything. 
Then  Annie  came  in. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  she  murmured  timidly  to  her  mother. 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Morel. 

Paul  sat  down  and  told  her  about  Blackpool.  She  was 
curious. 

A  day  or  two  after,  he  went  to  see  Dr.  Jameson  in  Not- 
tingham, to  arrange  for  a  consultation.  Paul  had  practically 
no  money  in  the  world.  But  he  could  borrow. 

His  mother  had  been  used  to  go  to  the  public  consultation 
on  Saturday  morning,  when  she  could  see  the  doctor  for 
only  a  nominal  sum.  Her  son  went  on  the  same  day.  The 
waiting-room  was  full  of  poor  women,  who  sat  patiently  on 
a  bench  around  the  wall.  Paul  thought  of  his  mother,  in  hef 
little  black  costume,  sitting  waiting  likewise.  The  doctoi 
was  late.  The  women  all  looked  rather  frightened.  Paul 

D 

asked  the  nurse  in  attendance  if  he  could  see  the  docto/ 
immediately  he  came.  It  was  arranged  so.  The  women  sit- 
ting patiently  round  the  walls  of  the  room  eyed  the  young 
man  curiously. 

At  last  the  doctor  came.  He  was  about  forty,  good- 
looking,  brown-skinned.  His  wife  had  died,  and  he,  who 
had  loved  her,  had  specialized  on  women's  ailments.  Paul 
told  his  name  and  his  mother's.  The  doctor  did  not  re- 
member. 

"Number  forty-six  M.,"  said  the  nurse;  and  the  doctor 
looked  up  the  case  in  his  book. 

"There  is  a  big  lump  that  may  be  a  tumour,"  said  Paul. 
"But  Dr.  Ansell  was  going  to  write  you  a  letter." 

"Ah,  yes!"  replied  the  doctor,  drawing  the  letter  fron. 


438  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

his  pocket.  He  was  very  friendly,  affable,  busy,  kind.  He 
would  come  to  Sheffield  the  next  day. 

"What  is  your  father?"  he  asked. 

"He  is  a  coal-miner,"  replied  Paul. 

"Not  very  well  off,  I  suppose?" 

"This— I  see  after  this,"  said  Paul. 

"And  you?"  smiled  the  doctor. 

"I  am  a  clerk  in  Jordan's  Appliance  Factory." 

The  doctor  smiled  at  him. 

"Er— to  go  to  Sheffield!"  he  said,  putting  the  tips  of  his 
nngers  together,  and  smiling  with  his  eyes.  "Eight  guineas?" 

"Thank  you!"  said  Paul,  flushing  and  rising.  "And  you'll 
come  tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow— Sunday?  Yes!  Can  you  tell  me  about  what 
time  there  is  a  train  in  the  afternoon?" 

"There  is  a  Central  gets  in  at  four-fifteen." 

"And  will  there  be  any  way  of  getting  up  to  the  house? 
Shall  I  have  to  walk?"  The  doctor  smiled. 

"There  is  the  tram,"  said  Paul;  "the  Western  Park  tram." 

The  doctor  made  a  note  of  it. 

"Thank  you!"  he  said,  and  shook  hands. 

Then  Paul  went  on  home  to  see  his  father,  who  was  left 
in  the  charge  of  Minnie.  Walter  Morel  was  getting  very 
grey  now.  Paul  found  him  digging  in  the  garden.  He  had 
written  him  a  letter.  He  shook  hands  with  his  father. 

"Hello,  son!  Tha  has  landed,  then?"  said  the  father. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  son.  "But  I'm  going  back  tonight." 

"Are  ter,  beguy!"  exclaimed  the  collier.  "An'  has  ter  eaten 
owt?" 

"No." 

"That's  just  like  me,"  said  Morel.  "Come  thy  ways  in." 

The  father  was  afraid  of  the  mention  of  his  wife.  The 
two  went  indoors.  Paul  ate  in  silence;  his  father,  with  earthy 
hands,  and  sleeves  rolled  up,  sat  in  the  arm-chair  opposite 
and  looked  at  him. 

"Well,  an'  how  is  she?"  asked  the  miner  at  length,  in  a  lit- 
le  voice. 


« 


BAXTER  DAWES  43^ 

"She  can  sit  up;  she  can  be  carried  down  for  tea/*  said 
Paul. 

"That's  a  blessin'!"  exclaimed  Morel.  "I  hope  we  s'll  soon 
be  havin'  her  whoam,  then.  An'  what's  that  Nottingham 
doctor  say?"  j 

"He's  going  tomorrow  to  have  an  examination  of  her." 

"Is  he,  beguy!  That's  a  tidy  penny,  I'm  thinkin'!" 

"Eight  guineas." 

"Eight  guineas!"  The  miner  spoke  breathlessly.  "Well,  we 
mun  find  it  from  somewhere." 
"I  can  pay  that,"  said  Paul. 

There  was  a  silence  between  them  for  some  time. 

"She  says  she  hopes  you're  getting  on  all  right  with  Min- 
nie," Paul  said. 

"Yes,  I'm  all  right,  an'  I  wish  as  she  was,"  answered 
Morel.  "But  Minnie's  a  good  little  wench,  bless  'er  hear1"1" 
He  sat  looking  dismal. 

"I  s'll  have  to  be  going  at  half-past  three,"  said  Paul. 

"It's  a  trapse  for  thee,  lad!  Eight  guineas!  An'  when  dost 
think  she'll  be  able  to  get  as  far  as  this?" 

"We  must  see  what  the  doctors  say  tomorrow,"  Paul  said 

Morel  sighed  deeply.  The  house  seemed  strangely  empty, 
and  Paul  thought  his  father  looked  lost,  forlorn,  and  old. 

"You'll  have  to  go  and  see  her  next  week,  father,"  he  said 

"I  hope  she'll  be  a-whoam  by  that  time,"  said  Morel. 

"If  she's  not,"  said  Paul,  "then  you  must  come." 

"I  dunno  wheer  I  s'll  find  th'  money,"  said  Morel. 

"And  I'll  write  to  you  what  the  doctor  says,"  said  Paul. 

"But  tha  writes  i'  such  a  fashion,  I  canna  ma'e  it  out,"  said 
Morel. 

"Well,  I'll  write  plain." 

It  was  no  good  asking  Morel  to  answer,  for  he  could 
scarcely  do  more  than  write  his  own  name. 

The  doctor  came.  Leonard  felt  it  his  duty  to  meet  him 
with  a  cab.  The  examination  did  not  take  long.  Annie, 
Arthur,  Paul,  and  Leonard  were  waiting  in  the  parlour 
anxiously.  The  doctors  came  down.  Paul  glanced  at  them. 


44°  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

He  had  never  had  any  hope,  except  when  he  had  deceived 
himself. 

"It  may  be  a  tumour;  we  must  wait  and  see,"  said  Dr. 
Jameson. 

"And  if  it  is,"  said  Annie,  "can  you  sweal  it  away?" 
"Probably,"  said  the  doctor. 

Paul  put  eight  sovereigns  and  a  half  sovereign  on  the  table. 
The  doctor  counted  them,  took  a  florin  out  of  his  purse, 
and  put  that  down. 

"Thank  you!"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  Mrs.  Morel  is  so  ill. 
But  we  must  see  what  we  can  do." 

"There  can't  be  an  operation?"  said  Paul. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said;  "and  even  if  there  could,  her  heart  wouldn't 
stand  it." 

"Is  her  heart  risky?"  asked  Paul. 
"Yes;  you  must  be  careful  with  her." 
"Very  risky?" 

"No— er— no,  no!  Just  take  care." 
And  the  doctor  was  gone. 

Then  Paul  carried  his  mother  downstairs.  She  lay  simply, 
like  a  child.  But  when  he  was  on  the  stairs,  sh*  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  clinging. 

"Fm  so  frightened  of  these  beastly  stairs,"  she  said. 

And  he  was  frightened,  too.  He  would  let  Leonard  do  it 
another  time.  He  felt  he  could  not  carry  her. 

"He  thinks  it's  only  a  tumour!"  cried  Annie  to  her 
mother.  "And  he  can  sweal  it  away." 

"I  knew  he  could,"  protested  Mrs.  Morel  scornfully. 

She  pretended  not  to  notice  that  Paul  had  gone  out  of  the 
room.  He  sat  in  the  kitchen,  smoking.  Then  he  tried  to  brush 
some  grey  ash  off  his  coat.  He  looked  again.  It  was  one  of 
his  mother's  grey  hairs.  It  was  so  long!  He  held  it  up,  and 
it  drifted  into  the  chimney.  He  let  go.  The  long  grey  hair 
floated  and  was  gone  in  the  blackness  of  the  chimney. 

The  next  day  he  kissed  her  before  going  back  to  work. 
It  was  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  they  were  alone. 

"You  won't  fret,  my  boy!"  she  said. 


BAXTER  DAWES  44 1 

"No,  mother." 

"No;  it  would  be  silly.  And  take  care  of  yourself." 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  Then,  after  a  while:  "And  I  sha!5 
come  next  Saturday,  and  shall  I  bring  my  father?" 

"I  suppose  he  wants  to  come,"  she  replied.  "At  any  rate, 
if  he  does  you'll  have  to  let  him." 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  stroked  the  hair  from  her  temples, 
gently,  tenderly,  as  if  she  were  a  lover. 

"Shan't  you  be  late?"  she  murmured. 

"I'm  going,"  he  said,  very  low. 

Still  he  sat  a  few  minutes,  stroking  the  brown  and  grey 
hair  from  her  temples. 

"And  you  won't  be  any  worse,  mother?" 

"No,  my  son." 

"You  promise  me?" 

"Yes;  I  won't  be  any  worse." 

He  kissed  her,  held  her  in  his  arms  for  a  moment,  and 
was  gone.  In  the  early  sunny  morning  he  ran  to  the  station, 
crying  all  the  way;  he  did  not  know  what  for.  And  her  blue 
eyes  were  wide  and  staring  as  she  thought  of  him. 

In  the  afternoon  he  went  a  walk  with  Clara.  They  sat  in 
the  little  wood  where  bluebells  were  standing.  He  took  her 
hand. 

"You'll  see,"  he  said  to  Clara,  "she'll  never  be  better." 
"Oh,  you  don't  know!"  replied  the  other. 
"I  do,"  he  said. 

She  caught  him  impulsively  to  her  breast. 

"Try  and  forget  it,  dear,"  she  said;  "try  and  forget  it." 

"I  will,"  he  answered. 

Her  breast  was  there,  warm  for  him:  her  hands  were  in 
his  hair.  It  was  comforting,  and  he  held  his  arms  round  her- 
But  he  did  not  forget.  He  only  talked  to  Clara  of  something 
else.  And  it  was  always  so.  When  she  felt  it  coming,  th* 
agony,  she  cried  to  him: 

"Don't  think  of  it,  Paul!  Don't  think  of  it,  my  darling!'' 
And  she  pressed  him  to  her  breast,  rocked  him,  soothed 
him  like  a  child.  So  he  put  the  trouble  aside  for  her  sake, 
to  take  it  up  again  immediately  he  was  alone.  All  the  time, 


442  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

as  he  went  about,  he  cried  mechanically.  His  mind  and  hands 
were  busy.  He  cried,  he  did  not  know  why.  It  was  his  blood 
weeping.  He  was  just  as  much  alone  whether  he  was  with 
Clara  or  with  the  men  in  the  White  Horse.  Just  himself 
and  this  pressure  inside  him,  that  was  all  that  existed.  He 
read  sometimes.  He  had  to%keep  his  mind  occupied.  And 
Clara  was  a  way  of  occupying  his  mind. 

On  the  Saturday  Walter  Morel  went  to  Sheffield.  He  was 
a  forlorn  figure,  looking  rather  as  if  nobody  owned  him. 
Paul  ran  upstairs. 

"My  father's  come,"  he  said,  kissing  his  mother. 

"Has  he?"  she  answered  weariedly. 

The  old  collier  came  rather  frightened  into  the  bedroom. 
"How  dun  I  find  thee,  lass?"  he  said,  going  forward  and 
kissing  her  in  a  hasty,  timid  fashion. 
"Well,  I'm  middlin',"  she  replied. 

"I  see  tha  art "  he  said.  He  stood  looking  down  on  her. 
Then  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief.  Helpless,  and 
as  if  nobody  owned  him,  he  looked. 

"Have  you  gone  on  all  right?"  asked  the  wife,  rather 
wearily,  as  if  it  were  an  effort  to  talk  to  him. 

"Yis,"  he  answered.  "  'Er's  a  bit  behint-hand  now  and 
again,  as  yer  might  expect." 

"Does  she  have  your  dinner  ready?"  asked  Mrs.  Morel. 

"Well,  I've  'ad  to  shout  at  'er  once  or  twice,"  he  said. 

"And  you  must  shout  at  her  if  she's  not  ready.  She  will 
feave  things  to  the  last  minute." 

She  gave  him  a  few  instructions.  He  sat  looking  at  her 
as  if  she  were  almost  a  stranger  to  him,  before  whom  he 
was  awkward  and  humble,  and  also  as  if  he  had  lost  his 
presence  of  mind,  and  wanted  to  run.  This  feeling  that  he 
wanted  to  run  away,  that  he  was  on  thorns  to  be  gone  from 
so  trying  a  situation,  and  yet  must  linger  because  it  looked 
better,  made  his  presence  so  trying.  He  put  up  his  eyebrows 
for  misery,  and  clenched  his  fists  on  his  knees,  feeling  so 
awkward  in  presence  of  a  big  trouble. 

Mrs.  A4orel  did  not  change  much.  She  stayed  in  Sheffield 
for  two  months.  If  anything,  at  the  end  she  was  rather 


BAXTER  DAWES  443 

worse.  But  she  wanted  to  go  home.  Annie  had  her  children. 
Mrs.  Morel  wanted  to  go  home.  So  they  got  a  motor-car 
from  Nottingham— for  she  was  too  ill  to  go  by  train— and 
she  was  driven  through  the  sunshine.  It  was  just  August; 
everything  was  bright  and  warm.  Under  the  blue  sky  they 
could  all  see  she  was  dying.  Yet  she  was  jollier  than  she  had 
been  for  weeks.  They  all  laughed  and  talked. 

"Annie,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  saw  a  lizard  dart  on  that  rock!'* 

Her  eyes  were  so  quick;  she  was  still  so  full  of  life. 

Morel  knew  she  was  coming.  He  had  the  front-door  open, 
Everybody  was  on  tiptoe.  Half  the  street  turned  out.  They 
heard  the  sound  of  the  great  motor-car.  Mrs.  Morel,  smiling, 
drove  home  down  the  street. 

"And  just  look  at  them  all  come  out  to  see  me!"  she  said. 
"But  there,  I  suppose  I  should  have  done  the  same.  How  do 
you  do,  Mrs.  Matthews?  How  are  you,  Mrs.  Harrison?" 

They  none  of  them  could  hear,  but  they  saw  her  smile  and 
nod.  And  they  all  saw  death  on  her  face,  they  said.  It  was 
a  great  event  in  the  street. 

Morel  wanted  to  carry  her  indoors,  but  he  was  too  old. 
Arthur  took  her  as  if  she  were  a  child.  They  had  set  her  a 
big,  deep  chair  by  the  hearth  where  her  rocking-chair  used 
to  stand.  When  she  was  unwrapped  and  seated,  and  had 

drunk  a  little  brandy,  she  looked  round  the  room. 

j 7 

"Don't  think  I  didn't  like  your  house,  Annie,"  she  said; 
"but  it's  nice  to  be  in  my  own  home  again." 
And  Morel  answered  huskily: 
"It  is,  lass,  it  is." 

And  Minnie,  the  little  quaint  maid,  said: 
"An'  we  glad  t'  'ave  yer." 

There  was  a  lovely  yellow  ravel  of  sunflowers  in  the 
garden.  She  looked  out  of  the  window. 
"There  are  my  sunflowers!"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


THE  RELEASE 


BY  THE  way,"  said  Dr.  Ansell  one  evening  when  Morel 
was  in  Sheffield,  "we've  got  a  man  in  the  fever  hos- 
pital here  who  comes  from  Nottingham— Dawes.  He  doesn't 
seem  to  have  many  belongings  in  this  world." 
"Baxter  Dawes!"  Paul  exclaimed. 

"That's  the  man— has  been  a  fine  fellow,  physically,  I 
should  think.  Been  in  a  bit  of  a  mess  lately.  You  know  him?" 

"He  used  to  work  at  the  place  where  I  am." 

"Did  he?  Do  you  know  anything  about  him?  He's  just 
sulking,  or  he'd  be  a  lot  better  than  he  is  by  now." 

"I  don't  know  anything  of  his  home  circumstances,  ex- 
cept that  he's  separated  from  his  wife  and  has  been  a  bit 
down,  I  believe.  But  tell  him  about  me,  will  you?  Tell  him 
I'll  come  and  see  him." 

The  next  time  Morel  saw  the  doctor  he  said: 

"And  what  about  Dawes? " 

"I  said  to  him,"  answered  the  other,  "  'Do  you  know  a 
man  from  Nottingham  named  Morel?'  and  he  looked  at  me 
as  if  he'd  jump  at  my  throat.  So  I  said,  'I  see  you  know  the 
name;  it's  Paul  Morel.'  Then  I  told  him  about  your  saying 
you  would  go  and  see  him.  'What  does  he  want?'  he  said, 
as  if  you  were  a  policeman." 

"And  did  he  say  he  would  see  me?"  asked  Paul. 

"He  wouldn't  say  anything— good,  bad,  or  indifferent," 
replied  the  doctor. 

"Why  not?" 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know.  There  he  lies  and  sulks,  day 
in,  day  out.  Can't  get  a  word  of  information  out  of  him." 
"Do  you  think  I  might  go?"  asked  Paul. 
"You  might." 

444 


THE  RELEASE  445 

There  was  a  feeling  of  connexion  between  the  rival  men, 
more  than  ever  since  they  had  fought.  In  a  way  Morel  felt 
guilty  towards  the  other,  and  more  or  less  responsible.  And 
being  in  such  a  state  of  soul  himself,  he  felt  an  almost  painful 
nearness  to  Dawes,  who  was  suffering  and  despairing,  too. 
Besides,  they  had  met  in  a  naked  extremity  of  hate,  and 
it  was  a  bond.  At  any  rate,  the  elemental  man  in  each  had 
met. 

He  went  down  to  the  isolation  hospital,  with  Dr.  Ansell's 
card.  The  sister,  a  healthy  young  Irishwoman,  led  him  down 
the  ward. 

"A  visitor  to  see  you,  Jim  Crow,"  she  said. 
Dawes  turned  over  suddenly  with  a  startled  grunt. 
"Eh?" 

*  _ 

"Caw!"  she  mocked.  "He  can  only  say  'Caw!'  I  hava 
brought  you  a  gentleman  to  see  you.  Now  say  'Thank  you,' 
and  show  some  manners." 

Dawes  looked  swiftly  with  his  dark,  startled  eyes  beyond 
the  sister  at  Paul.  His  look  was  full  of  fear,  mistrust,  hate, 
and  misery.  Morel  met  the  swift,  dark  eyes,  and  hesi- 
tated. The  two  men  were  afraid  of  the  naked  selves  they 
had  been. 

"Dr.  Ansell  told  me  you  were  here,"  said  Morel,  holding 
out  his  hand. 

Dawes  mechanically  shook  hands. 

"So  I  thought  I'd  come  in,"  continued  Paul. 

There  was  no  answer.  Dawes  lay  staring  at  the  opposite 
wall. 

"Say  'Caw!'  "  mocked  the  nurse.  "Say  'Caw!'  Jim  Crow." 

"He  is  getting  on  all  right?"  said  Paul  to  her. 

"Oh  yes!  He  lies  and  imagines  he's  going  to  die,"  said 
the  nurse,  "and  it  frightens  every  word  out  of  his  mouth." 

"And  you  must  have  somebody  to  talk  to,"  laughed  Morel. 

"That's  it!"  laughed  the  nurse.  "Only  two  old  men  and 
a  boy  who  always  cries.  It  is  hard  lines!  Here  am  I  dying  to 
hear  Jim  Crow's  voice,  and  nothing  but  an  odd  'Caw!'  will 
he  give!" 

"So  rough  on  you!"  said  Morel. 


^4<S  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Isn't  it?"  said  the  nurse. 

"I  suppose  I  am  a  godsend,"  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  dropped  straight  from  heaven!"  laughed  the  nurse. 

Presently  she  left  the  two  men  alone.  Dawes  was  thinner, 
and  handsome  again,  but  life  seemed  low  in  him.  As  the 
doctor  said,  he  was  lying  sulking,  and  would  not  move 
forward  towards  convalescence.  He  seemed  to  grudge  every 
beat  of  his  heart. 

"Have  you  had  a  bad  time?"  asked  Paul. 

Suddenly  again  Dawes  looked  at  him. 

"What  are  you  doin'  in  Sheffield?"  he  asked. 

"My  mother  was  taken  ill  at  my  sister's  in  Thurston  Street. 
What  are  you  doing  here?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in?"  Morel  asked. 

"I  couldn't  say  for  sure,"  Dawes  answered  grudgingly. 

He  lay  staring  across  at  the  wall  opposite,  as  if  trying  to 
believe  Morel  was  not  there.  Paul  felt  his  heart  go  hard  and 
angry. 

"Dr.  Ansell  told  me  you  were  here,"  he  said  coldly. 

The  other  man  did  not  answer. 

"Typhoid's  pretty  bad,  I  know,"  Morel  persisted. 

Suddenly  Dawes  said: 

"What  did  you  come  for?" 

"Because  Dr.  Ansell  said  you  didn't  know  anybody  here. 
Do  you?" 

"I  know  nobody  nowhere,"  said  Dawes. 

"Well,"  said  Paul,  "it's  because  you  don't  choose  to,  then." 

There  was  another  silence. 

"We  s'U  be  taking  my  mother  home  as  soon  as  we  can," 
said  Paul. 

"What's  a-matter  with  her?"  asked  Dawes,  with  a  sick 
man's  interest  in  illness. 
"She's  got  a  cancer." 
There  was  another  silence. 

"But  we  want  to  get  her  home,"  said  Paul.  "We  s'll  have 
to  get  a  motor-car." 
Dawes  lay  thinking. 


THE  RELEASE  447 

"Why  don't  you  ask  Thomas  Jordan  to  lend  you  his?" 
said  Dawes. 

"It's  not  big  enough,"  Morel  answered. 

Dawes  blinked  his  dark  eyes  as  he  lay  thinking. 

"Then  ask  Jack  Pilkington;  he'd  lend  it  you.  You  know 
him." 

"I  think  I  s'll  hire  one,"  said  Paul. 

"You're  a  fool  if  you  do,"  said  Dawes. 

The  sick  man  was  gaunt  and  handsome  again.  Paul  was 
sorry  for  him  because  his  eyes  looked  so  tired. 

"Did  you  get  a  job  here?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  only  here  a  day  or  two  before  I  was  taken  badt" 
Dawes  replied. 

"You  want  to  get  in  a  convalescent  home,"  said  Paul. 

The  other's  face  clouded  again. 

"I'm  goin'  in  no  convalescent  home,"  he  said. 

"My  father's  been  in  the  one  at  Seathorpe,  an'  he  liked 
it.  Dr.  Ansell  would  get  you  a  recommend." 

Dawes  lay  thinking.  It  was  evident  he  dared  not  face  the 
world  again. 

"The  seaside  would  be  all  right  just  now,"  Morel  said- 
"Sun  on  those  sandhills,  and  the  waves  not  far  out." 
The  other  did  not  answer. 

"By  Gad!"  Paul  concluded,  too  miserable  to  bother  much; 
"it's  all  right  when  you  know  you're  going  to  walk  again, 
and  swim!" 

Dawes  glanced  at  him  quickly.  The  man's  dark  eyes  were 
afraid  to  meet  any  other  eyes  in  the  world.  But  the  real 
misery  and  helplessness  in  Paul's  tone  gave  him  a  feeling  of 
relief. 

"Is  she  far  gone?"  he  asked. 

"She's  going  like  wax,"  Paul  answered;  "but  cheerful- 
lively!" 

He  bit  his  lip.  After  a  minute  he  rose: 
"Well,  I'll  be  going,"  he  said.  "I'll  leave  you  this  half- 
crown." 

"I  don't  want  it,"  Dawes  muttered. 

Morel  did  not  answer,  but  left  the  coin  on  the  table. 


448  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I'll  try  and  run  in  when  I'm  back  in 
Sheffield.  Happen  you  might  like  to  see  my  brother-in-law? 
He  works  in  Pyecrofts." 

"I  don't  know  him,"  said  Dawes. 

"He's  all  right.  Should  I  tell  him  to  come?  He  might  bring 
you  some  papers  to  look  at." 

The  other  man  did  not  answer.  Paul  went.  The  strong 
emotion  that  Dawes  aroused  in  him,  repressed,  made  him 
shiver. 

He  did  not  tell  his  mother,  but  next  day  he  spoke  to  Clara 
about  this  interview.  It  was  in  the  dinner-hour.  The  two 
did  not  often  go  out  together  now,  but  this  day  he  asked 
her  to  go  with  him  to  the  Castle  grounds.  There  they  sat 
while  the  scarlet  geraniums  and  the  yellow  calceolarias 
blazed  in  the  sunlight.  She  was  now  always  rather  protec- 
tive, and  rather  resentful  towards  him. 

"Did  you  know  Baxter  was  in  Sheffield  Hospital  with 
typhoid?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled  grey  eyes,  and  her  face 
went  pale. 

"No,"  she  said,  frightened. 

"He's  getting  better.  I  went  to  see  him  yesterday— the 
doctor  told  me." 

Clara  seemed  stricken  by  the  news. 

"Is  he  very  bad?"  she  asked  guiltily. 

"He  has  been.  He's  mending  now." 

"What  did  he  say  to  you?" 

"Oh,  nothing!  He  seems  to  be  sulking." 

There  was  a  distance  between  the  two  of  them.  He  gave 
her  more  information. 

She  went  about  shut  up  and  silent.  The  next  time  they 
took  a  walk  together,  she  disengaged  herself  from  his  arm, 
and  walked  at  a  distance  from  him.  He  was  wanting  her 
comfort  badly. 

"Won't  you  be  nice  with  me?"  he  asked. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  said,  putting  his  arm  across  her 
shoulder. 


THE  RELEASE  449 

"Don't!"  she  said,  disengaging  herself. 
He  left  her  alone,  and  returned  to  his  own  brooding. 
"Is  it  Baxter  that  upsets  you?"  he  asked  at  length. 
"I  have  been  vile  to  him!"  she  said. 

"I've  said  many  a  time  you  haven't  treated  him  well,"  he 
replied. 

And  there  was  a  hostility  between  them.  Each  pursued  his 
own  train  of  thought. 

"I've  treated  him— no,  I've  treated  him  badly,"  she  said. 
"And  now  you  treat  me  badly.  It  serves  me  right." 

"How  do  I  treat  you  badly?"  he  said. 

"It  serves  me  right,"  she  repeated.  "I  never  considered 
him  worth  having,  and  now  you  don't  consider  me.  But  it 
serves  me  right.  He  loved  me  a  thousand  times  better  than 
you  ever  did." 

"He  didn't! "  protested  Paul. 

"He  did!  At  any  rate,  he  did  respect  me,  and  that's  what 
you  don't  do." 

"It  looked  as  if  he  respected  you!"  he  said. 

"He  did!  And  I  made  him  horrid— I  know  I  did!  You've 
taught  me  that.  And  he  loved  me  a  thousand  times  better 
than  ever  you  do." 

"All  right,"  said  Paul. 

He  only  wanted  to  be  left  alone  now.  He  had  his  own 
trouble,  which  was  almost  too  much  to  bear.  Clara  only 
tormented  him  and  made  him  tired.  He  was  not  sorry  when 
he  left  her. 

She  went  on  the  first  opportunity  to  Sheffield  to  see  hef 
husband.  The  meeting  was  not  a  success.  But  she  left  him 
roses  and  fruit  and  money.  She  wanted  to  make  restitution. 
It  was  not  that  she  loved  him.  As  she  looked  at  him  lying 
there  her  heart  did  not  warm  with  love.  Only  she  wanted 
to  humble  herself  to  him,  to  kneel  before  him.  She  wanted 
now  to  be  self-sacrificial.  After  all,  she  had  failed  to  make 
Morel  really  love  her.  She  was  morally  frightened.  She 
wanted  to  do  penance.  So  she  kneeled  to  Dawes,  and  it  gave 
him  a  subtle  pleasure.  But  the  distance  between  them  was 
still  very  great— too  great.  It  frightened  the  man.  It  almost 


450  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

pleased  the  woman.  She  liked  to  feel  she  was  serving  him 
across  an  insuperable  distance.  She  was  proud  now. 

Morel  went  to  see  Dawes  once  or  twice.  There  was  a 
sort  of  friendship  between  the  two  men,  who  were  all  the 
while  deadly  rivals.  But  they  never  mentioned  the  woman 
who  was  between  them. 

Mrs.  Morel  got  gradually  worse.  At  first  they  used  to 
carry  her  downstairs,  sometimes  even  into  the  garden.  She 
sat  propped  in  her  chair,  smiling,  and  so  pretty.  The  gold 
wedding-ring  shone  on  her  white  hand;  her  hair  was  care- 
fully brushed.  And  she  watched  the  tangled  sunflowers, 
dying,  the  chrysanthemums  coming  out,  and  the  dahlias. 

Paul  and  she  were  afraid  of  each  other.  He  knew,  and  she 
knew,  that  she  was  dying.  But  they  kept  up  a  pretence  of 
cheerfulness.  Every  morning,  when  he  got  up,  he  went  into 
her  room  in  his  pyjamas. 

"Did  you  sleep,  my  dear?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Not  very  well?" 

"Well,  yes!" 

Then  he  knew  she  had  lain  awake.  He  saw  her  hand  under 
the  bedclothes,  pressing  the  place  on  her  side  where  the 
pain  was. 

"Has  it  been  bad?"  he  asked. 

"No.  It  hurt  a  bit,  but  nothing  to  mention.;r 

And  she  sniffed  in  her  old  scornful  way.  As  she  lay  she 
looked  like  a  girl.  And  all  the  while  her  blue  eyes  watched 
him.  But  there  were  the  dark  pain-circles  beneath  that  made 
him  ache  again. 

"It's  a  sunny  day,"  he  said. 

"It's  a  beautiful  day." 

"Do  you  think  you'll  be  carried  down?" 

"I  shall  see." 

Then  he  went  away  to  get  her  breakfast.  All  day  long  he 
was  conscious  of  nothing  but  her.  It  was  a  long  ache  that 
made  him  feverish.  Then,  when  he  got  home  in  the  early 
evening,  he  glanced  through  the  kitchen  window.  She  was 
not  there;  she  had  not  got  up. 


THE  RELEASE  45 1 

He  ran  straight  upstairs  and  kissed  her.  He  was  almost 
afraid  to  ask: 

"Didn't  you  get  up,  Pigeon?" 

"No,"  she  said.  "It  was  that  morphia;  it  made  me  tired." 
"I  think  he  gives  you  too  much,"  he  said. 
"I  think  he  does,"  she  answered. 

He  sat  down  by  the  bed,  miserably.  She  had  a  way  of 
curling  and  lying  on  her  side,  like  a  child.  The  grey  and 
brown  hair  was  loose  over  her  ear. 

"Doesn't  it  tickle  you?"  he  said,  gently  putting  it  back. 

"It  does,"  she  replied. 

His  face  was  near  hers.  Her  blue  eyes  smiled  straight  into 
his,  like  a  girl's— warm,  laughing  with  tender  love.  It  made 
him  pant  with  terror,  agony,  and  love. 

"You  want  your  hair  doing  in  a  plait,"  he  said.  "Lie  stills 

And  going  behind  her,  he  carefully  loosened  her  hair, 
brushed  it  out.  It  was  like  fine  long  silk  of  brown  and  grey. 
Her  head  was  snuggled  between  her  shoulders.  As  he  lightly 
brushed  and  plaited  her  hair,  he  bit  his  lip  and  felt  dazed. 
It  all  seemed  unreal,  he  could  not  understand  it. 

At  night  he  often  worked  in  her  room,  looking  up  from 
time  to  time.  And  so  often  he  found  her  blue  eyes  fixed  on 
him.  And  when  their  eyes  met,  she  smiled.  He  worked  away 
again,  mechanically,  producing  good  stuff  without  knowing 
what  he  was  doing. 

Sometimes  he  came  in,  very  pale  and  still,  with  watchful, 
sudden  eyes,  like  a  man  who  is  drunk  almost  to  death.  They 
were  both  afraid  of  the  veils  that  were  ripping  between 
them. 

Then  she  pretended  to  be  better,  chattered  to  him  gaily, 
made  a  great  fuss  over  some  scraps  of  news.  For  they  had 
both  come  to  the  condition  when  they  had  to  make  much 
of  the  trifles,  lest  they  should  give  in  to  the  big  thing,  and 
their  human  independence  would  go  smash.  They  were 
afraid,  so  they  made  light  of  things  and  were  gay. 

Sometimes  as  she  lay  he  knew  she  was  thinking  of  the 
past.  Her  mouth  gradually  shut  hard  in  a  line.  She  was  hold- 
ing herself  rigid,  so  that  she  might  die  without  ever  uttering 


452  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

the  great  cry  that  was  tearing  from  her.  He  never  forgot 
that  hard,  utterly  lonely  and  stubborn  clenching  of  her 
mouth,  which  persisted  for  weeks.  Sometimes,  when  it  was 
lighter,  she  talked  about  her  husband.  Now  she  hated  him. 
She  did  not  forgive  him.  She  could  not  bear  him  to  be  in  the 
room.  And  a  few  things,  the  things  that  had  been  most 
bitter  to  her,  came  up  again  so  strongly  that  they  broke  from 
her,  and  she  told  her  son. 

He  felt  as  if  his  life  were  being  destroyed,  piece  by  piece, 
within  him.  Often  the  tears  came  suddenly.  He  ran  to  the 
station,  the  tear-drops  falling  on  the  pavement.  Often  he 
could  not  go  on  with  his  work.  The  pen  stopped  writing. 
He  sat  staring,  quite  unconscious.  And  when  he  came  round 
again  he  felt  sick,  and  trembled  in  his  limbs.  He  never  ques- 
tioned what  it  was.  His  mind  did  not  try  to  analyse  or  un- 
derstand. He  merely  submitted,  and  kept  his  eyes  shut;  let 
the  thing  go  over  him. 

His  mother  did  the  same.  She  thought  of  the  pain,  of  the 
morphia,  of  the  next  day;  hardly  ever  of  the  death.  That  was 
coming,  she  knew.  She  had  to  submit  to  it.  But  she  would 
never  entreat  it  or  make  friends  with  it.  Blind,  with  her  face 
shut  hard  and  blind,  she  was  pushed  towards  the  door.  The 
days  passed,  the  weeks,  the  months. 

Sometimes,  in  the  sunny  afternoons,  she  seemed  almost 
happy. 

"I  try  to  think  of  the  nice  times— when  we  went  to  Mable- 
thorpe,  and  Robin  Hood's  Bay,  and  Shanklin,"  she  said. 
"After  all,  not  everybody  has  seen  those  beautiful  places. 
And  wasn't  it  beautiful!  I  try  to  think  of  that,  not  of  the 
other  things." 

Then,  again,  for  a  whole  evening  she  spoke  not  a  word; 
neither  did  he.  They  were  together,  rigid,  stubborn,  silent. 
He  went  into  his  room  at  last  to  go  to  bed,  and  leaned 
against  the  doorway  as  if  paralysed,  unable  to  go  any  farther. 
His  consciousness  went.  A  furious  storm,  he  knew  not  what, 
seemed  to  ravage  inside  him.  He  stood  leaning  there,  sub- 
mitting, never  questioning. 

In  the  morning  they  were  both  normal  again,  though  her 


THE  RELEASE  .  453 

face  was  grey  with  the  morphia,  and  her  body  felt  like  ash. 
But  they  were  bright  again,  nevertheless.  Often,  especially 
if  Annie  or  Arthur  were  at  home,  he  neglected  her.  He  did 
not  see  much  of  Clara.  Usually  he  was  with  men.  He  was 
quick  and  active  and  lively;  but  when  his  friends  saw  him 
go  white  to  the  gills,  his  eyes  dark  and  glittering,  they  had 
a  certain  mistrust  of  him.  Sometimes  he  went  with  Clara, 
but  she  was  almost  cold  to  him. 
"Take  me!"  he  said  simply. 

Occasionally  she  would.  But  she  was  afraid.  When  he 
had  her  then,  there  was  something  in  it  that  made  her  shrink 
away  from  hinwsomething  unnatural.  She  grew  to  dread 
him.  He  was  so  quiet,  yet  so  strange.  She  was  afraid  of  the 
man  who  was  not  there  with  her,  whom  she  could  feel 
behind  this  make-belief  lover;  somebody  sinister,  that  filled 
her  with  horror.  She  began  to  have  a  kind  of  horror  of  him. 
It  was  almost  as  if  he  were  a  criminal.  He  wanted  her— he 
had  her— and  it  made  her  feel  as  if  death  itself  had  her  in  its 
grip.  She  lay  in  horror.  There  was  no  man  there  loving  her. 
She  almost  hated  him.  Then  came  little  bouts  of  tenderness. 
But  she  dared  not  pity  him. 

Dawes  had  come  to  Colonel  Seely's  Home  near  Notting- 
ham. There  Paul  visited  him  sometimes,  Clara  very  occa- 
sionally. Between  the  two  men  the  friendship  had  de- 
veloped peculiarly.  Dawes,  who  mended  very  slowly  and 
seemed  very  feeble,  seemed  to  leave  himself  in  the  hands 
of  Morel. 

In  the  beginning  of  November  Clara  reminded  Paul  that 
it  was  her  birthday. 

"I'd  nearly  forgotten,"  he  said. 

"I  thought  quite,"  she  replied. 

"No.  Shall  we  go  to  the  seaside  for  the  week-end?" 

They  went.  It  was  cold  and  rather  dismal.  She  waited 
for  him  to  be  warm  and  tender  with  her,  instead  of  which 
he  seemed  hardly  aware  of  her.  He  sat  in  the  railway- 
carriage,  looking  out,  and  was  startled  when  she  spoke  to 
him.  He  was  not  definitely  thinking.  Things  seemed  as  if 
they  did  not  exist.  She  went  across  to  him. 


454    .  S0NS  AND  lovers 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing!"  he  said.  "Don't  those  windmill  sails  look 
monotonous?" 

He  sat  holding  her  hand.  He  could  not  talk  nor  think. 
It  was  a  comfort,  however,  to  sit  holding  her  hand.  She  was 
dissatisfied  and  miserable.  He  was  not  with  her;  she  was 
nothing. 

And  in  the  evening  they  sat  among  the  sandhills,  looking 
at  the  black,  heavy  sea. 

"She  will  never  give  in,"  he  said  quietly. 
Clara's  heart  sank. 
"No,"  she  replied. 

"There  are  different  ways  of  dying.  My  father's  people 
are  frightened,  and  have  to  be  hauled  out  of  life  into  death 
like  cattle  into  a  slaughter-house,  pulled  by  the  neck;  but  my 
mother's  people  are  pushed  from  behind,  inch  by  inch.  They 
are  stubborn  people,  and  won't  die." 

"Yes,"  said  Clara. 

"And  she  won't  die.  She  can't.  Mr.  Renshaw,  the  parson, 
was  in  the  other  day.  'Think!'  he  said  to  her;  'you  will  have 
your  mother  and  father,  and  your  sisters,  and  your  son,  in 
the  Other  Land.'  And  she  said:  'I  have  done  without  them 
for  a  long  time,  and  can  do  without  them  now.  It  is  the  living 
I  want,  not  the  dead.'  She  wants  to  live  even  now." 

"Oh,  how  horrible!"  said  Clara,  too  frightened  to  speak. 

"And  she  looks  at  me,  and  she  wants  to  stay  with  me," 
he  went  on  monotonously.  "She's  got  such  a  will,  it  seems 
as  if  she  would  never  go— never! " 

"Don't  think  of  it! "  cried  Clara. 

"And  she  was  religious— she  is  religious  now— but  it  is  no 
good.  She  simply  won't  give  in.  And  do  you  know,  I  said 
to  her  on  Thursday,  'Mother,  if  I  had  to  die,  I'd  die.  I'd  will 
to  die.'  And  she  said  to  me,  sharp:  'Do  you  think  I  haven't? 
Do  you  think  you  can  die  when  you  like?'  " 

His  voice  ceased.  He  did  not  cry,  only  went  on  speaking 
monotonously.  Clara  wanted  to  run.  She  looked  round. 
There  was  the  black,  re-echoing  shore,  the  dark  sky  down 
on  her.  She  got  up  terrified.  She  wanted  to  be  where  there 


THE  RELEASE  455 

was  light,  where  there  were  other  people.  She  wanted  to  be 
away  from  him.  He  sat  with  his  head  dropped,  not  moving 
a  muscle. 

"And  I  don't  want  her  to  eat,"  he  said,  "and  she  knows  it 
When  I  ask  her,  'Shall  you  have  anything?'  she's  almost 
afraid  to  say  'Yes.'  I'll  have  a  cup  of  Benger's,'  she  says. 
'It'll  only  keep  your  strength  up,'  I  said  to  her.  'Yes'— and 
she  almost  cried— 'but  there's  such  a  gnawing  when  I 
eat  nothing,  I  can't  bear  it.'  So  I  went  and  made  her  the 
food.  It's  the  cancer  that  gnaws  like  that  at  her.  I  wish 
she'd  die!" 

"Come!"  said  Clara  roughly.  "I'm  going." 

He  followed  her  down  the  darkness  of  the  sands.  He  did 
not  come  to  her.  He  seemed  scarcely  aware  of  her  existence. 
And  she  was  afraid  of  him,  and  disliked  him. 

In  the  same  acute  daze  they  went  back  to  Nottingham 
He  was  always  busy,  always  doing  something,  always  going 
from  one  to  the  other  of  his  friends. 

On  the  Monday  he  went  to  see  Baxter  Dawes.  Listless  and 
pale,  the  man  rose  to  greet  the  other,  clinging  to  his  chair 
as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  shouldn't  get  up,"  said  Paul. 

Dawes  sat  down  heavily,  eyeing  Morel  with  a  sort  of 
suspicion. 

"Don't  you  waste  your  time  on  me,"  he  said,  "if  you've 
owt  better  to  do." 

"I  wanted  to  come,"  said  Paul.  "Here!  I  brought  you  some 
sweets." 

The  invalid  put  them  aside. 

"It's  not  been  much  of  a  week-end,"  said  Morel. 

"How's  your  mother?"  asked  the  other. 

"Hardly  any  different." 

"I  thought  she  was  perhaps  worse,  being  as  you  didn't 
come  on  Sunday." 

"I  was  at  Skegness,'7  said  Paul.  "I  wanted  a  change." 

The  other  looked  at  him  with  dark  eyes.  He  seemed  to 
be  waiting,  not  quite  daring  to  ask,  trusting  to  be  told. 

"I  went  with  Clara,"  said  Paul. 


45<$  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"I  knew  as  much,"  said  Dawes  quietly. 
"It  was  an  old  promise,"  said  Paul. 
"You  have  it  your  own  way,"  said  Dawes. 
This  was  the  first  time  Clara  had  been  definitely  men- 
tioned between  them. 

"Nay,"  said  Morel  slowly;  "she's  tired  of  me." 
Again  Dawes  looked  at  him. 

"Since  August  she's  been  getting  tired  of  me,"  Morel 
repeated. 

The  two  men  were  very  quiet  together.  Paul  suggested  a 
game  of  draughts.  They  played  in  silence. 

"I  s'll  go  abroad  when  my  mother's  dead,"  said  Paul, 

"Abroad!"  repeated  Dawes. 

"Yes;  I  don't  care  what  I  do." 

They  continued  the  game.  Dawes  was  winning. 

"I  s'll  have  to  begin  a  new  start  of  some  sort,"  said  Paul; 
"and  you  as  well,  I  suppose." 

He  took  one  of  Dawes'  pieces. 

"I  dunno  where,"  said  the  other. 

"Things  have  to  happen,"  Morel  said.  "It's  no  good  doing 
anything— at  least— no,  I  don't  know.  Give  me  some  toffee." 

The  two  men  ate  sweets,  and  began  another  game  of 
draughts. 

"What  made  that  scar  on  your  mouth?"  asked  Dawes. 
Paul  put  his  hand  hastily  to  his  lips,  and  looked  over  the 
garden. 

"I  had  a  bicycle  accident,"  he  said. 

Dawes'  hand  trembled  as  he  moved  the  piece. 

"You  shouldn't  ha'  laughed  at  me,"  he  said  very  low. 

"When?" 

"That  night  on  Woodborough  Road,  when  you  and  her 
passed  me— you  with  your  hand  on  her  shoulder." 

"I  never  laughed  at  you,"  said  Paul. 

Dawes  kept  his  fingers  on  the  draught-piece. 

"I  never  knew  you  were  there  till  the  very  second  when 
yot  oassed,"  said  Morel. 

"It  was  that  as  did  me,"  he  said,  very  low. 

Paul  took  another  sweet. 


THE  RELEASE  457 

"I  never  laughed,"  he  said,  "except  as  I'm  always 
laughing." 

They  finished  the  game. 

That  night  Morel  walked  home  from  Nottingham,  in 
order  to  have  something  to  do.  The  furnaces  flared  in  a 
red  blotch  over  Bui  well;  the  black  clouds  were  like  a  krw' 
ceiling.  As  he  went  along  the  ten  miles  of  highroad,  he  felt  * 
as  if  he  were  walking  out  of  life,  between  the  black  levels 
of  the  sky  and  the  earth.  But  at  the  end  was  only  the  sick- 
room. If  he  walked  and  walked  for  ever,  there  was  only  that 
place  to  come  to. 

He  was  not  tired  when  he  got  near  home,  or  he  did  nof< 
know  it.  Across  the  field  he  could  see  the  red  firelight  leap 
ing  in  her  bedroom  window. 

"When  she's  dead,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that  fire  will  go 
out." 

He  took  off  his  boots  quietly  and  crept  upstairs.  His 
mother's  door  was  wide  open,  because  she  slept  alone  still 
The  red  firelight  dashed  its  glow  on  the  landing.  Soft  as  a 
shadow,  he  peeped  in  her  doorway. 

"Paul!"  she  murmured. 

His  heart  seemed  to  break  again.  He  went  in  and  sat  by 
the  bed. 

"How  late  you  are!"  she  murmured. 
"Not  very,"  he  said. 

"Why,  what  time  is  it?"  The  murmur  came  plaintive  and 
helpless. 

"It's  only  just  gone  eleven." 

That  was  not  true;  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock. 

"Oh!"  she  said;  "I  thought  it  was  later." 

And  he  knew  the  unutterable  misery  of  her  nights  that 
would  not  go. 

"Can't  you  sleep,  my  pigeon?"  he  said. 

"No,  I  can't,"  she  wailed. 

"Never  mind,  little!"  he  said  crooning.  "Never  mind,  my 
love.  I'll  stop  with  you  half  an  hour,  my  pigeon;  then  per- 
haps it  will  be  better." 

And  he  sat  by  the  bedside,  slowly,  rhythmically  stroking 


458  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

her  brows  with  his  finger-tips,  stroking  her  eyes  shut,  sooth- 
ing her,  holding  her  fingers  in  his  free  hand.  They  could  hear 
the  sleepers'  breathing  in  the  other  rooms. 

"Now  go  to  bed,"  she  murmured,  lying  quite  still  under 
his  fingers  and  his  love. 

"Will  you  sleep?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"You  feel  better,  my  little,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  like  a  fretful,  half-soothed  child. 

Still  the  days  and  the  weeks  went  by.  He  hardly  ever  went 
to  see  Clara  now.  But  he  wandered  restlessly  from  one  per- 
son to  another  for  some  help,  and  there  was  none  anywhere. 
Miriam  had  written  to  him  tenderly.  He  went  to  see  her.  Her 
heart  was  very  sore  when  she  saw  him,  white,  gaunt,  with 
his  eyes  dark  and  bewildered.  Her  pity  came  up,  hurting  her 
till  she  could  not  bear  it. 

"How  is  she?"  she  asked. 

"The  same— the  same!"  he  said.  "The  doctor  says  she 
can't  last,  but  I  know  she  will.  She'll  be  here  at  Christmas." 

Miriam  shuddered.  She  drew  him  to  her;  she  pressed  him 
to  her  bosom;  she  kissed  him  and  kissed  him.  He  submitted, 
but  it  was  torture.  She  could  not  kiss  his  agony.  That  re- 
mained alone  and  apart.  She  kissed  his  face,  and  roused  his 
blood,  while  his  soul  was  apart  writhing  with  the  agony  of 
death.  And  she  kissed  him  and  fingered  his  body,  till  at  last, 
feeling  he  would  go  mad,  he  got  away  from  her.  It  was  not 
that  he  wanted  just  then— not  that.  And  she  thought  she  had 
soothed  him  and  done  him  good. 

December  came,  and  some  snow.  He  stayed  at  home  all 
the  while  now.  They  could  not  afford  a  nurse.  Annie  came 
to  look  after  her  mother;  the  parish  nurse,  whom  they  loved, 
came  in  morning  and  evening.  Paul  shared  the  nursing  with 
Annie.  Often,  in  the  evenings,  when  friends  were  in  the 
kitchen  with  them,  they  all  laughed  together  and  shook 
with  laughter.  It  was  reaction.  Paul  was  so  comical,  Annie 
was  so  quaint.  The  whole  party  laughed  till  they  cried,  try- 
2ng  to  subdue  the  sound.  And  Mrs.  Morel,  lying  alone  in  the 


THE  RELEASE  459 

darkness,  heard  them,  and  among  her  bitterness  was  a  feeling 
of  relief. 

Then  Paul  would  go  upstairs  gingerly,  guiltily,  to  see  if 
she  had  heard. 

"Shall  I  give  you  some  milk?"  he  asked. 
"A  little,"  she  replied  plaintively. 

And  he  would  put  some  water  with  it,  so  that  it  should 
not  nourish  her.  Yet  he  loved  her  more  than  his  own  life. 

She  had  morphia  every  night,  and  her  heart  got  fitful. 
Annie  slept  beside  her.  Paul  would  go  in  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, when  his  sister  got  up.  His  mother  was  wasted  and 
almost  ashen  in  the  morning  with  the  morphia.  Darker  and 
darker  grew  her  eyes,  all  pupil,  with  the  torture.  In  the 
mornings  the  weariness  and  ache  were  too  much  to  bear. 
Yet  she  could  not— would  not— weep,  or  even  complain 
f  much. 

"You  slept  a  bit  later  this  morning,  little  one,"  he  would 
say  to  her. 

"Did  I?"  she  answered,  with  fretful  weariness. 
"Yes;  it's  nearly  eight  o'clock." 

He  stood  looking  out  of  the  window.  The  whole  country 
was  bleak  and  pallid  under  the  snow.  Then  he  felt  her  pulse. 
There  was  a  strong  stroke  and  a  weak  one,  like  a  sound  and 
its  echo.  That  was  supposed  to  betoken  the  end.  She  let  him 
feel  her  wrist,  knowing  what  he  wanted. 

Sometimes  they  looked  in  each  other's  eyes.  Then  they 
almost  seemed  to  make  an  agreement.  It  was  almost  as  if  he 
were  agreeing  to  die  also.  But  she  did  not  consent  to  die;  * 
she  would  not.  Her  body  was  wasted  to  a  fragment  of  ash. 
Her  eyes  were  dark  and  full  of  torture. 

"Can't  you  give  her  something  to  put  an  end  to  it?"  he 
asked  the  doctor  at  last. 

But  the  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"She  can't  last  many  days  now,  Mr.  Morel,"  he  said. 

Paul  went  indoors. 

"I  can't  bear  it  much  longer;  we  shall  all  go  mad,"  said 
Annie. 


460  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

The  two  sat  down  to  breakfast. 

"Go  and  sit  with  her  while  we  have  breakfast,  Minnie," 
,»aid  Annie.  But  the  girl  was  frightened. 

Paul  went  through  the  country,  through  the  woods,  over 
the  snow.  He  saw  the  marks  of  rabbits  and  birds  in  the  white 
snow.  He  wandered  miles  and  miles.  A  smoky  red  sunset 
came  on  slowly,  painfully,  lingering.  He  thought  she  w7ould 
die  that  day.  There  was  a  donkey  that  came  up  to  him  over 
the  snow  by  the  wood's  edge,  and  put  its  head  against  him, 
and  walked  with  him  alongside.  He  put  his  arms  round  the 
.    donkey's  neck,  and  stroked  his  cheeks  against  his  ears. 

His  mother,  silent,  was  still  alive,  with  her  hard  mouth 
gripped  grimly,  her  eyes  of  dark  torture  only  living. 

It  was  nearing  Christmas;  there  was  more  snow.  Annie  and 
he  felt  as  if  they  could  go  on  no  more.  Still  her  dark  eyes 
were  alive.  Morel,  silent  and  frightened,  obliterated  himself. 
Sometimes  he  would  go  into  the  sick-room  and  look  at  her. 
Then  he  backed  out,  bewildered. 

She  kept  her  hold  on  life  still.  The  miners  had  been  out 
on  strike,  and  returned  a  fortnight  or  so  before  Christmas. 
Minnie  went  upstairs  with  the  feeding-cup.  It  was  two  days 
after  the  men  had  been  in. 

"Have  the  men  been  saying  their  hands  are  sore,  Minnie?" 
*>he  asked,  in  the  faint,  querulous  voice  that  would  not  give 
:n.  Minnie  stood  surprised. 

"Not  as  I  know  of,  Mrs.  Morel,"  she  answered. 

"But  I'll  bet  they  are  sore,"  said  the  dying  woman,  as  she 
moved  her  head  with  a  sigh  of  weariness.  "But,  at  any  rate, 
there'll  be  something  to  buy  in  with  this  week." 

Not  a  thing  did  she  let  slip. 

"Your  father's  pit  things  will  want  well  airing,  Annie," 
she  said,  when  the  men  were  going  back  to  work. 

"Don't  you  bother  about  that,  my  dear,"  said  Annie. 

One  night  Annie  and  Paul  were  alone.  Nurse  was  upstairs. 

"She'll  live  over  Christmas,"  said  Annie.  They  were  both 
full  of  horror. 

"She  won't,"  he  replied  grimly.  "I  s'll  give  her  morphia." 
"Which?"  said  Annie. 


THE  RELEASE  461 

"All  that  came  from  Sheffield,"  said  Paul. 
"Ay— do!"  said  Annie. 

The  next  day  he  was  painting  in  the  bedroom.  She  seemed 
to  be  asleep.  He  stepped  softly  backwards  and  forwards  at 
his  painting.  Suddenly  her  small  voice  wailed: 

"Don't  walk  about,  Paul." 

He  looked  round.  Her  eyes,  like  dark  bubbles  in  her  face, 
were  looking  at  him. 

"No,  my  dear,"  he  said  gently.  Another  fibre  seemed  to 
snap  in  his  heart. 

That  evening  he  got  all  the  morphia  pills  there  were,  and 
took  them  downstairs.  Carefully  he  crushed  them  to  powder, 

"What  are  you  doing?"  said  Annie. 

"I  sTl  put  'em  in  her  night  milk." 

Then  they  both  laughed  together  like  two  conspiring 
children.  On  top  of  all  their  horror  flickered  this  little  sanity. 

Nurse  did  not  come  that  night  to  settle  Mrs.  Morel  down. 
Paul  went  up  with  the  hot  milk  in  a  feeding-cup.  It  was 
nine  o'clock. 

She  was  reared  up  in  bed,  and  he  put  the  feeding-cup 
between  her  lips  that  he  would  have  died  to  save  from  any 
hurt.  She  took  a  sip,  then  put  the  spout  of  the  cup  away 
and  looked  at  him  with  her  dark,  wondering  eyes.  He  looked 
at  her. 

"Oh,  it  is  bitter,  Paul!"  she  said,  making  a  little  grimace. 

"It's  a  new  sleeping  draught  the  doctor  gave  me  for  you," 
he  said.  "He  thought  it  wouldn't  leave  you  in  such  a  state 
in  the  morning." 

"And  I  hope  it  won't,"  she  said,  like  a  child. 

She  drank  some  more  of  the  milk. 

"But  it  is  horrid! "  she  said. 

He  saw  her  frail  fingers  over  the  cup,  her  lips  making  a 
little  move. 

"I  know— I  tasted  it,"  he  said.  "But  I'll  give  you  some  clean 
milk  afterwards." 

"I  think  so,"  she  said,  and  she  went  on  with  the  draught. 
She  was  obedient  to  him  like  a  child.  He  wondered  if  she 
knew.  He  saw  her  poor  wasted  throat  moving  as  she  drank 


462  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

with  difficulty  Then  he  ran  downstairs  for  more  milk. 
There  were  no  grains  in  the  bottom  of  the  cup. 

"Has  she  had  it?"  whispered  Annie. 

"Yes— and  she  said  it  was  bitter." 

"Oh!"  laughed  Annie,  putting  her  under  lip  between  her 
V  teeth. 

"And  I  told  her  it  was  a  new  draught.  Where's  that  milk?" 
They  both  went  upstairs. 

"I  wonder  why  nurse  didn't  come  to  settle  me  down?" 
complained  the  mother,  like  a  child,  wistfully. 

"She  said  she  was  going  to  a  concert,  my  love,"  replied 
Annie. 

"Did  she?" 

They  were  silent  a  minute.  Mrs.  Morel  gulped  the  little 
clean  milk. 

"Annie,  that  draught  was  horrid!"  she  said  plaintively. 

"Was  it,  my  love?  Well,  never  mind." 

The  mother  sighed  again  with  weariness.  Her  pulse  was 
very  irregular. 

"Let  us  settle  you  down,"  said  Annie.  "Perhaps  nurse  will 
be  so  lace." 

"Ay,"  said  the  mother— "try." 

They  turned  the  clothes  back.  Paul  saw  his  mother  like  a 
<*irl  curled  up  in  her  flannel  nightdress.  Quickly  they  made 
one  half  the  bed,  moved  her,  made  the  other,  straightened 
her  nightgown  over  her  small  feet,  and  covered  her  up. 

"There,"  said  Paul,  stroking  her  softly.  "There!— now 
you'll  sleep." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  didn't  think  you  could  do  the  bed  so 
nicely,"  she  added,  almost  gaily.  Then  she  curled  up,  with 
her  cheek  on  her  hand,  her  head  snugged  between  her 
shoulder.  Paul  put  the  long  thin  plait  of  grey  hair  over  her 
shoulder  and  kissed  her. 

"You'll  sleep,  my  love,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  trustfully.  "Good-night." 

They  put  out  the  light,  and  it  was  still. 

Morel  was  in  bed.  Nurse  did  not  come.  Annie  and  Paul 
c£me  to  look  at  her  about  eleven.  She  seemed  to  be  sleeping 


THE  RELEASE  463 

as  usual  after  her  draught.  Her  mouth  had  come  a  bit  open 
"Shall  we  sit  up?"  said  Paul. 

'i  s'll  lie  with  her  as  I  always  do,"  said  Annie.  "She  might 
wake  up." 

"All  right.  And  call  me  if  you  see  any  difference." 
"Yes." 

They  lingered  before  the  bedroom  fire,  feeling  the  night 
big  and  black  and  snowy  outside,  their  two  selves  alone  in 
the  world.  At  last  he  went  into  the  next  room  and  went  to 
bed. 

He  slept  almost  immediately,  but  kept  waking  every  now 
and  again.  Then  he  went  sound  asleep.  He  started  awake  at 
Annie's  whispered,  "Paul,  Paul!"  He  saw  his  sister  in  her 
white  nightdress,  with  her  long  plait  of  hair  down  her  backf 
standing  in  the  darkness. 

"Yes?"  he  whispered,  sitting  up. 

"Come  and  look  at  her." 

He  slipped  out  of  bed.  A  bud  of  gas  was  burning  in  the 
sick-chamber.  His  mother  lay  with  her  cheek  on  her  hand, 
curled  up  as  she  had  gone  to  sleep.  But  her  mouth  had  fallen 
open,  and  she  breathed  with  great,  hoarse  breaths,  like  snor- 
ing, and  there  were  long  intervals  between. 

"She's  going!"  he  whispered. 

"Yes,"  said  Annie. 

"How  long  has  she  been  like  it?" 

"I  only  just  woke  up." 

Annie  huddled  into  the  dressing-gown,  Paul  wrapped 
himself  in  a  brown  blanket.  It  was  three  o'clock.  He  mended 
the  fire.  Then  the  two  sat  waiting.  The  great,  snoring  breath 
was  taken— held  awhile— then  given  back.  There  was  a  space 
—a  long  space.  Then  they  started.  The  great,  snoring  breath 
was  taken  again.  He  bent  close  down  and  looked  at  her. 

"Isn't  it  awfull"  whispered  Annie. 

He  nodded.  They  sat  down  again  helplessly.  Again  came 
the  great,  snoring  breath.  Again  they  hung  suspended.  Again 
it  was  given  back,  long  and  harsh.  The  sound,  so  irregular, 
at  such  wide  intervals,  sounded  through  the  house.  Morel, 
in  his  room,  slept  on.  Paul  and  Annie  sat  crouched,  huddled, 


464  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

motionless.  The  great,  snoring  sound  began  again— there  was 
a  painful  pause  while  the  breath  was  held— back  came  the 
rasping  breath.  Minute  after  minute  passed.  Paul  looked  at 
her  again,  bending  low  over  her. 
"She  may  last  like  this,"  he  said. 

They  were  both  silent.  He  looked  out  of  the  window,  and 
could  faintly  discern  the  snow  on  the  garden. 

"You  go  to  my  bed,"  he  said  to  Annie.  "I'll  sit  up." 
"No,"  she  said,  "I'll  stop  with  you." 
"I'd  rather  you  didn't,"  he  said. 

At  last  Annie  crept  out  of  the  room,  and  he  was  alone. 
He  hugged  himself  in  his  brown  blanket,  crouched  in  front 
of  his  mother,  watching.  She  looked  dreadful,  with  the 
bottom  jaw  fallen  back.  He  watched.  Sometimes  he  thought 
the  great  breath  would  never  begin  again.  He  could  not  bear 
it— the  waiting.  Then  suddenly,  startling  him,  came  the  great 
harsh  sound.  He  mended  the  fire  again,  noiselessly.  She  must 
not  be  disturbed.  The  minutes  went  by.  The  night  was 
going,  breath  by  breath.  Each  time  the  sound  came  he  felt 
it  wring  him,  till  at  last  He  could  not  feel  so  much. 

His  father  got  up.  Paul  heard  the  miner  drawing  his 
stocking  on,  yawning.  Then  Morel,  in  shirt  and  stockings, 
entered. 

"Hush!"  said  Paul. 

Morel  stood  watching.  Then  he  looked  at  his  son,  help- 
lessly, and  in  horror. 

"Had  I  better  stop  a-whoam?"  he  whispered. 
"No.  Go  to  work.  She'll  last  through  tomorrow." 
"I  don't  think  so." 
"Yes.  Go  to  work." 

The  miner  looked  at  her  again,  in  fear,  and  went  obedi- 
ently out  of  the  room.  Paul  saw  the  tape  of  his  garters  swing- 
ing against  his  legs. 

After  another  half-hour  Paul  went  downstairs  and  drank 
a  cup  of  tea,  then  returned.  Morel,  dressed  for  the  pit,  came 
upstairs  again. 

"Am  I  to  go?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 


THE  RELEASE  465 

And  in  a  few  minutes  Paul  heard  his  father's  heavy  steps, 
go  thudding  over  the  deadening  snow.  Miners  called  in  the 
street  as  they  tramped  in  gangs  to  work.  The  terrible,  long- 
drawn  breaths  continued— heave— heave— heave;  then  a  long 
pause— then  ah— ah-h-h-h!  as  it  came  back.  Far  away  over  the 
snow  sounded  the  hooters  of  the  ironworks.  One  after  an- 
other they  crowed  and  boomed,  some  small  and  far  away, 
some  near,  the  blowers  of  the  collieries  and  the  other  works. 
Then  there  was  silence.  He  mended  the  fire.  The  great 
breaths  broke  the  silence— she  looked  just  the  same.  He  put 
back  the  blind  and  peered  out.  Still  it  was  dark.  Perhaps 
there  was  a  lighter  tinge.  Perhaps  the  snow  was  bluer.  He 
drew  up  the  blind  and  got  dressed.  Then,  shuddering,  he 
drank  brandy  from  the  bottle  on  the  washstand.  The  snow 
*was  growing  blue.  He  heard  a  cart  clanking  down  the  street. 
Yes,  it  was  seven  o'clock,  and  it  was  coming  a  little  bit  light. 
He  heard  some  people  calling.  The  world  was  waking.  A 
grey,  deathly  dawn  crept  over  the  snow.  Yes,  he  could  see 
the  houses.  He  put  out  the  gas.  It  seemed  very  dark.  The 
breathing  came  still,  but  he  was  almost  used  to  it.  He  could 
see  her.  She  was  just  the  same.  He  wondered  if  he  piled 
heavy  clothes  on  top  of  her  it  would  make  it  heavier  and  the 
horrible  breathing  would  stop.  He  looked  at  her.  That  was 
not  her— not  her  a  bit.  If  he  piled  the  blanket  and  heavy  coats 
on  her  

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Annie  entered.  She  looked 
at  him  questioningly. 

"Just  the  same,"  he  said  calmly. 

They  whispered  together  a  minute,  then  went  downstairs 
to  get  breakfast.  It  was  twenty  to  eight.  Soon  Annie  came 
down. 

"Isn't  it  awful!  Doesn't  she  look  awful!"  she  whispered, 
dazed  with  horror. 
He  nodded. 

"If  she  looks  like  that!"  said  Annie. 
"Drink  some  tea,"  he  said. 

They  went  upstairs  again.  Soon  the  neighbours  came  with 
their  frightened  question: 


466  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"How  is  she?" 

It  went  on  just  the  same.  She  lay  with  her  cheek  in  her 
hand,  her  mouth  fallen  open,  and  the  great,  ghastly  snores 
came  and  went. 

At  ten  o'clock  nurse  came.  She  looked  strange  and  woe- 
begone. 

"Nurse,''  cried  Paul,  "she'll  last  like  this  for  days?" 
"She  can't,  Mr.  Morel,"  said  nurse.  "She  can't." 
There  was  a  silence. 

"Isn't  it  dreadful!"  wailed  the  nurse.  "Who  would  have 
thought  she  could  stand  it?  Go  down  now,  Mr.  Morel,  go 
down." 

At  last,  at  about  eleven  o'clock,  he  went  downstairs  and 
sat  in  the  neighbour's  house.  Annie  was  downstairs  also. 
Nurse  and  Arthur  were  upstairSc  Paul  sat  with  his  head  in 
his  hands.  Suddenly  Annie  came  flying  across  the  yard  cry- 
ing, half  mad: 

"Paul-Paul-she's  gone!" 

In  a  second  he  was  back  in  his  own  house  and  upstairs.  She 
lay  curled  up  and  still,  with  her  face  on  her  hand,  and  nurse 
was  wiping  her  mouth.  They  all  stood  back.  He  kneeled 
down,  and  put  his  face  to  hers  and  his  arms  round  her: 

"My  love— my  love— oh,  my  love!"  he  whispered  again 
and  again.  "My  love— oh,  my  love!" 

Then  he  heard  the  nurse  behind  him,  crying,  saying: 

"She's  better,  Mr.  Morel,  she's  better." 

When  he  took  his  face  up  from  his  warm,  dead  mother 
he  went  straight  downstairs  and  began  blacking  his  boots. 

There  was  a  good  deal  to  do,  letters  to  write,  and  so  on. 
The  doctor  came  and  glanced  at  her,  and  sighed. 

"Ay— poor  thing!"  he  said,  then  turned  away.  "Well,  calJ 
at  the  surgery  about  six  for  the  certificate." 

The  father  came  home  from  work  at  about  four  o'clock. 
He  dragged  silently  into  the  house  and  sat  down.  Minnie 
bustled  to  give  him  his  dinner.  Tired,  he  laid  his  black  arms 
on  the  table.  There  were  swede  turnips  for  his  dinner,  which 
he  liked.  Paul  wondered  if  he  knew.  It  was  some  time,  and 
nobody  had  spoken.  At  last  the  son  said: 


THE  RELEASE 

"You  noticed  the  blinds  were  down?" 
Morel  looked  up. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Why-has  she  gone?" 
"Yes." 

"When  wor  that?" 

"About  twelve  this  morning." 

"H'm!" 

The  miner  sat  still  for  a  moment,  then  began  his  dinnei , 
It  was  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  He  ate  his  turnips  in 
silence.  Afterwards  he  washed  and  went  upstairs  to  dress. 
The  door  of  her  room  was  shut. 

"Have  you  seen  her?"  Annie  asked  of  him  when  he  came, 
down. 

"No,"  he  said. 

In  a  little  while  he  went  out.  Annie  went  away,  and  Paul 
called  on  the  undertaker,  the  clergyman,  the  doctor,  the 
registrar.  It  was  a  long  business.  He  got  back  at  nearly  eight 
o'clock.  The  undertaker  was  coming  soon  to  measure  for 
the  coffin.  The  house  was  empty  except  for  her.  He  took  a 
candle  and  went  upstairs. 

The  room  was  cold,  that  had  been  warm  for  so  long. 
Flowers,  bottles,  plates,  all  sick-room  litter  was  taken  away; 
everything  was  harsh  and  austere.  She  lay  raised  on  the  bed, 
the  sweep  of  the  sheet  from  the  raised  feet  was  like  a  clean 
curve  of  snow,  so  silent.  She  lay  like  a  maiden  asleep.  With 
his  candle  in  his  hand,  he  bent  over  her.  She  lay  like  a  girl 
asleep  and  dreaming  of  her  love.  The  mouth  was  a  little 
open,  as  if  wondering  from  the  suffering,  but  her  face  was 
young,  her  brow  clear  and  white  as  if  life  had  never  touched 
it.  He  looked  again  at  the  eyebrows,  at  the  small,  winsome; 
nose  a  bit  on  one  side.  She  was  young  again.  Only  the  hair 
as  it  arched  so  beautifully  from  her  temples  was  mixed  with 
silver,  and  the  two  simple  plaits  that  lay  on  her  shoulders 
were  filigree  of  silver  and  brown.  She  would  wake  up.  She 
would  lift  her  eyelids.  She  was  with  him  still.  He  bent  and 
kissed  her  passionately.  But  there  was  coldness  against  his 
mouth.  He  bit  his  lip  with  horror.  Looking  at  her,  he  felt 
he  could  never,  never  let  her  go.  No!  He  stroked  the  hair 


468  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

from  her  temples.  That,  too,  was  cold.  He  saw  the  mouth  so 
dumb  and  wondering  at  the  hurt.  Then  he  crouched  on  the 
floor,  whispering  to  her: 
"Mother,  mother!" 

He  was  still  with  her  when  the  undertakers  came,  young 
men  who  had  been  to  school  with  him.  They  touched  her 
reverently,  and  in  a  quiet,  businesslike  fashion.  They  did  not 
look  at  her.  He  watched  jealously.  He  and  Annie  guarded 
her  fiercely.  They  would  not  let  anybody  come  to  see  her, 
and  the  neighbours  were  offended. 

After  a  while  Paul  went  out  of  the  house,  and  played 
cards  at  a  friend's.  It  was  midnight  when  he  got  back.  His 
father  rose  from  the  couch  as  he  entered,  saying  in  a  plain- 
tive way: 

"I  thought  tha  wor  niver  comin',  lad." 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  sit  up,"  said  Paul. 

His  father  looked  so  forlorn.  Morel  had  been  a  man  with- 
out fear— simply  nothing  frightened  him.  Paul  realized  with 
a  start  that  he  had  been  afraid  to  go  to  bed,  alone  in  the 
house  with  his  dead.  He  was  sorry. 

"I  forgot  you'd  be  alone,  father,"  he  said. 

"Dost  want  owt  to  eat?"  asked  Morel. 

"No." 

"Sithee— I  made  thee  a  drop  o'  hot  milk.  Get  it  down 
thee;  it's  cold  enough  for  owt." 
Paul  drank  it. 

"I  must  go  to  Nottingham  tomorrow,"  he  said. 

After  a  while  Morel  went  to  bed.  He  hurried  past  the 
closed  door,  and  left  his  own  door  open.  Soon  the  son  came 
upstairs  also.  He  went  in  to  kiss  her  good-night,  as  usual.  It 
was  cold  and  dark.  He  wished  they  had  kept  her  fire  burn- 
ing. Still  she  dreamed  her  young  dream.  But  she  would  be 
cold. 

"My  dear!"  he  whispered  "My  dear!" 

And  he  did  not  kiss  her,  for  fear  she  should  be  cold 
and  strange  to  him.  It  eased  him  she  slept  so  beautifully. 
He  shut  her  door  softly,  not  to  wake  her,  and  went  to 
bed. 


THE  RELEASE  469 

In  the  morning  Morel  summoned  his  courage,  hearing 
Annie  downstairs  and  Paul  coughing  in  the  room  across  the 
landing.  He  opened  her  door,  and  went  into  the  darkened 
room.  He  saw  the  white  uplifted  form  in  the  twilight,  but 
her  he  dared  not  see.  Bewildered,  too  frightened  to  possess 
any  of  his  faculties,  he  got  out  of  the  room  again  and  left 
her.  He  never  looked  at  her  again.  He  had  not  seen  her  for 
months,  because  he  had  not  dared  to  look.  And  she  looked 
like  his  young  wife  again. 

"Have  you  seen  her?"  Annie  asked  of  him  sharply  after 
breakfast. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"And  don't  you  think  she  looks  nice?" 
"Yes." 

He  went  out  of  the  house  soon  after.  And  all  the  time  he 
seemed  to  be  creeping  aside  to  avoid  it. 

Paul  went  about  from  place  to  place,  doing  the  business 
of  the  death.  He  met  Clara  in  Nottingham,  and  they  had 
tea  together  in  a  cafe,  when  they  were  quite  jolly  again. 
She  was  infinitely  relieved  to  find  he  did  not  take  it  tragically. 

Later,  when  the  relatives  began  to  come  for  the  funeral, 
the  affair  became  public,  and  the  children  became  social 
beings.  They  put  themselves  aside.  They  buried  her  in  a 
furious  storm  of  rain  and  wind.  The  wet  clay  glistened,  all 
the  white  flowers  were  soaked.  Annie  gripped  his  arm  and 
leaned  forward.  Down  below  she  saw  a  dark  corner  of 
William's  coffin.  The  oak  box  sank  steadily.  She  was  gone. 
The  rain  poured  in  the  grave.  The  procession  of  black,  with 
its  umbrellas  glistening,  turned  away.  The  cemetery  was 
deserted  under  the  drenching  cold  rain. 

Paul  went  home  and  busied  himself  supplying  the  guests 
with  drinks.  His  father  sat  in  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Morel's 
relatives,  "superior"  people,  and  wept,  and  said  what  a  good 
lass  she'd  been,  and  how  he'd  tried  to  do  everything  he  could 
for  her—everything.  He  had  striven  all  his  life  to  do  what  he 
could  for  her,  and  he'd  nothing  to  reproach  himself  with. 
She  was  gone,  but  he'd  done  his  best  for  her.  He  wiped  his 
eyes  with  his  white  handkerchief.  He'd  nothing  to  reproach 


JflO  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

himself  for,  he  repeated.  All  his  life  he'd  done  his  best  for 
her. 

And  that  was  how  he  tried  to  dismiss  her.  He  never 
thought  of  her  personally.  Everything  deep  in  him  he  de- 
nied. Paul  hated  his  father  for  sitting  sentimentalizing  over 
her.  He  knew  he  would  do  it  in  the  public-houses.  For  the 
real  tragedy  went  on  in  Morel  in  spite  of  himself.  Some- 
times, later,  he  came  down  from  his  afternoon  sleep,  white 
and  cowering. 

"I  have  been  dreaming  of  thy  mother,"  he  said  in  a  small 
voice, 

"Have  you,  father?  When  I  dream  of  her  it's  always  just 
as  she  was  when  she  was  well.  I  dream  of  her  often,  but  it 
seems  quite  nice  and  natural,  as  if  nothing  had  altered." 

But  Morel  crouched  in  front  of  the  fire  in  terror. 

The  weeks  passed  half  real,  not  much  pain,  not  much  of 
anything,  perhaps  a  little  relief,  mostly  a  nuit  blanche.  Paul 
went  restlessly  from  place  to  place.  For  some  months,  since 
his  mother  had  been  worse,  he  had  not  made  love  to  Clara. 
She  was,  as  it  were,  dumb  to  him,  rather  distant.  Dawes  saw 
her  very  occasionally,  but  the  two  could  not  get  an  inch 
across  the  great  distance  between  them.  The  three  of  them 
were  drifting  forward. 

Dawes  mended  very  slowly.  He  was  in  the  convalescent 
home  at  Skegness  at  Christmas,  nearly  well  again.  Paul  went 
to  the  seaside  for  a  few  days.  His  father  was  with  Annie  in 
Sheffield.  Dawes  came  to  Paul's  lodgings.  His  time  in  the 
home  was  up.  The  two  men,  between  whom  was  such  a  big 
reserve,  seemed  faithful  to  each  other.  Dawes  depended  on 
Morel  now.  He  knew  Paul  and  Clara  had  practically 
separated. 

Two  days  after  Christmas  Paul  was  to  go  back  to  Not- 
tingham. The  evening  before  he  sat  with  Dawes  smoking 
before  the  fire. 

"You  know  Clara's  coming  down  for  the  day  tomorrow?" 
he  said. 

The  other  man  glanced  at  him. 
"Yes,  you  told  me,"  he  replied. 


THE  RELEASE  47 1 

Paul  drank  the  remainder  of  his  glass  of  whisky. 

"I  told  the  landlady  your  wife  was  coming,"  he  said. 

"Did  you?"  said  Dawes,  shrinking,  but  almost  leaving 
himself  in  the  other's  hands.  He  got  up  rather  stiffly,  and 
reached  for  Morel's  glass. 

"Let  me  fill  you  up,"  he  said. 

Paul  jumped  up. 

"You  sit  still,"  he  said. 

But  Dawes,  with  rather  shaky  hand,  continued  to  mix  the 
drink. 

"Say  when,"  he  said. 

"Thanks!"  replied  the  other,  "But  you've  no  business  to 
get  up." 

"It  does  me  good,  lad,"  replied  Dawes.  "I  begin  to  think 
I'm  right  again,  then." 

"You  are  about  right,  you  know." 

"I  am,  certainly  I  am,"  said  Dawes,  nodding  to  him. 

"And  Len  says  he  can  get  you  on  in  Sheffield." 

Dawes  glanced  at  him  again,  with  dark  eyes  that  agreed 
with  everything  the  other  would  say,  perhaps  a  trifle  domi- 
nated by  him. 

"It's  funny,"  said  Paul,  "starting  again.  I  feel  in  a  lot 
bigger  mess  than  you." 
"In  what  way,  lad?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know.  It's  as  if  I  was  in  a  tangled 
sort  of  hole,  rather  dark  and  dreary,  and  no  road  anywhere." 

"I  know— I  understand  it,"  Dawes  said,  nodding.  "But 
you'll  find  it'll  come  all  fight." 

He  spoke  caressingly. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Paul. 

Dawes  knocked  his  pipe  in  a  hopeless  fashion. 

"You've  not  done  for  yourself  like  I  have,"  he  said. 

Morel  saw  the  wrist  and  the  white  hand  of  the  other  man 
gripping  the  stem  of  the  pipe  and  knocking  out  the  ash,  as 
if  he  had  given  up. 

"How  old  are  you? "  Paul  asked. 

"Thirty-nine,"  replied  Dawes,  glancing  at  him. 

Those  brown  eyes,  full  of  the  consciousness  of  failure, 


472  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

almost  pleading  for  reassurance,  for  someone  to  re-establish 
the  man  in  himself,  to  warn  him,  to  set  him  up  firm  again, 
troubled  Paul. 

"You'll  just  be  in  your  prime,"  said  Morel.  "You  don't 
look  as  if  much  life  had  gone  out  of  you." 
The  brown  eyes  of  the  other  flashed  suddenly. 
"It  hasn't,"  he  said.  "The  go  is  there." 
Paul  looked  up  and  laughed. 

"We've  both  got  plenty  of  life  in  us  yet  to  make  things 
fly,"  he  said. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  They  exchanged  one  look. 
Having  recognized  the  stress  of  passion  each  in  the  other, 
they  both  drank  their  whisky. 

"Yes,  begod!"  said  Dawes,  breathless. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"And  I  don't  see,"  said  Paul,  "why  you  shouldn't  go  on 
where  you  left  off." 

"What—"  said  Dawes,  suggestively. 

"Yes— fit  your  old  home  together  again." 

Dawes  hid  his  face  and  shook  his  head. 

"Couldn't  be  done,"  he  said,  and  he  looked  up  with  an 
ironic  smile. 

"Why?  Because  you  don't  want?" 

"Perhaps." 

They  smoked  in  silence.  Dawes  showed  his  teeth  as  he  bit 
his  pipe  stem, 

"You  mean  you  don't  want  her?"  asked  Paul. 

Dawes  stared  up  at  the  picture  \*dth  a  caustic  expression 
on  his  face. 

"I  hardly  know,"  he  said. 

The  smoke  floated  softly  up. 

"I  believe  she  wants  you,"  said  Paul. 

"Do  you?"  replied  the  other,  soft,  satirical,  abstract. 

"Yes.  She  never  really  hitched  on  to  me— you  were  alwaytf 
there  in  the  background.  That's  why  she  wouldn't  get  a 
divorce." 

Dawes  continued  to  stare  in  a  satirical  fashion  at  the  pic  - 
ture  over  the  mantelpiece. 


THE  RELEASE  473 

"That's  how  women  are  with  me,"  said  Paul.  "They  want 
me  like  mad,  but  they  don't  want  to  belong  to  me.  And  she 
belonged  to  you  all  the  time.  I  knew." 

The  triumphant  male  came  up  in  Dawes.  He  showed  his 
teeth  more  distinctly. 

"Perhaps  I  was  a  fool,"  he  said. 

"You  were  a  big  fool,"  said  Morel. 

"But  perhaps  even  then  you  were  a  bigger  fool,"  said 
Dawes. 

There  was  a  touch  of  triumph  and  malice  in  it. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Paul. 

They  were  silent  for  some  time. 

"At  any  rate,  I'm  clearing  out  tomorrow,"  said  Morel. 

"I  see,"  answered  Dawes. 

Then  they  did  not  talk  any  more.  The  instinct  to  murdei 
each  other  had  returned.  They  almost  avoided  each  other. 

They  shared  the  same  bedroom.  When  they  retired  Dawes 
seemed  abstract,  thinking  of  something.  He  sat  on  the  side 
of  the  bed  in  his  shirt,  looking  at  his  legs. 

"Aren't  you  getting  cold?"  asked  Morel. 

"I  was  lookin'  at  these  legs,"  replied  the  other. 

"What's  up  with  'em?  They  look  all  right,"  replied  Paul, 
from  his  bed. 

"They  look  all  right.  But  there's  some  water  in  'em  yet.'1 
"And  what  about  it?" 
"Come  and  look." 

Paul  reluctantly  got  out  of  bed  and  went  to  look  at  tllf 
rather  handsome  legs  of  the  other  man  that  were  covered 
with  glistening,  dark  gold  hair. 

"Look  here,"  said  Dawes,  pointing  to  his  shin.  "Look  at 
the  water  under  here." 

"Where?"  said  Paul. 

The  man  pressed  in  his  finger-tips.  They  left  little  dents 
that  filled  up  slowly. 
"It's  nothing,"  said  Paul. 
"You  feel,"  said  Dawes. 

Paul  tried  with  his  fingers.  It  made  little  dents. 
"H'm!"  he  said. 


474  SONS  AND  lovers 

"Rotten,  isn't  it?"  said  Dawes. 
"Why!  It's  nothing  much." 

"You're  not  much  of  a  man  with  water  in  your  legs." 
"I  can't  see  as  it  makes  any  difference,"  said  Morel.  "I've 
got  a  weak  chest." 

He  returned  to  his  own  bed. 

"I  suppose  the  rest  of  me's  all  right,"  said  Dawes,  and  he 
put  out  the  light. 

In  the  morning  it  was  raining.  Morel  packed  his  bag.  The 
sea  was  grey  and  shaggy  and  dismal.  He  seemed  to  be  cutting 
himself  off  from  life  more  and  more.  It  gave  him  a  wicked 
pleasure  to  do  it. 

The  two  men  were  at  the  station.  Clara  stepped  out  of 
the  train,  and  came  along  the  platform,  very  erect  and  coldly 
composed.  She  wore  a  long  coat  and  a  tweed  hat.  Both  men 
hated  her  for  her  composure.  Paul  shook  hands  with  her 
at  the  barrier.  Dawes  was  leaning  against  the  bookstall, 
watching.  His  black  overcoat  was  buttoned  up  to  the  chin 
because  of  the  rain.  He  was  pale,  with  almost  a  touch  of 
nobility  in  his  quietness.  He  came  forward,  limping  slightly. 

"You  ought  to  look  better  than  this,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right  now." 

The  three  stood  at  a  loss.  She  kept  the  two  men  hesitating 
near  her. 

"Shall  we  go  to  the  lodging  straight  off,"  said  Paul,  "or 
somewhere  else?" 

"We  may  as  well  go  home,"  said  Dawes. 

Paul  walked  on  the  outside  of  the  pavement,  then  Dawes, 
then  Clara.  They  made  polite  conversation.  The  sitting-room 
faced  the  sea,  whose  tide,  grey  and  shaggy,  hissed  not  far  off. 

Morel  swung  up  the  big  arm-chair. 

"Sit  down,  Jack,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  want  that  chair,"  said  Dawes. 

"Sit  down!"  Morel  repeated. 

Clara  took  off  her  things  and  laid  them  on  the  couch.  She 
had  a  slight  air  of  resentment.  Lifting  her  hair  with  her 
fingers,  she  sat  down,  rather  aloof  and  composed.  Paul  ran 
downstairs  to  speak  to  the  landlady. 


THE  RELEASE  475 

"I  should  think  you're  cold,"  said  Dawes  to  his  wife, 
"Come  nearer  to  the  fire." 

"Thank  you,  I'm  quite  warm,"  she  answered. 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  rain  and  at  the  sea. 

"When  are  you  going  back?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  the  rooms  are  taken  until  tomorrow,  so  he  want) 
me  to  stop.  He's  going  back  tonight." 

"And  then  you're  thinking  of  going  to  Sheffield?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  fit  to  start  work?" 
"I'm  going  to  start." 
"You've  really  got  a  place?" 
"Yes— begin  on  Monday." 
"You  don't  look  fit." 
"Why  don't  I?" 

She  looked  again  out  of  the  window  instead  of  answering. 

"And  have  you  got  lodgings  in  Sheffield?" 

"Yes." 

Again  she  looked  away  out  of  the  window.  The  panes 
were  blurred  with  streaming  rain. 

"And  can  you  manage  all  right?"  she  asked. 

"I  s'd  think  so.  I  s'll  have  to!" 
'  They  were  silent  when  Morel  returned. 

"I  shall  go  by  the  four-twenty,"  he  said  as  he  entered. 

Nobody  answered. 

"I  wish  you'd  take  your  boots  off,"  he  said  to  Clara, 
"There's  a  pair  of  slippers  of  mine." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "They  aren't  wet." 

He  put  the  slippers  near  her  feet.  She  felt  them  there. 

Morel  sat  down.  Both  the  men  seemed  helpless,  and  each 
of  them  had  a  rather  hunted  look.  But  Dawes  now  carried 
himself  quietly,  seemed  to  yield  himself,  while  Paul  seemed 
to  screw  himself  up.  Clara  thought  she  had  never  seen  him 
look  so  small  and  mean.  He  was  as  if  trying  to  get  himself 
into  the  smallest  possible  compass.  And  as  he  went  about 
arranging,  and  as  he  sat  talking,  there  seemed  something 
false  about  him  and  out  of  tune.  Watching  him  unknown, 
she  said  to  herself  there  was  no  stability  about  him.  He  wa% 


476  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

fine  in  his  way,  passionate,  and  able  to  give  her  drinks  of 
pure  life  when  he  was  in  one  mood.  And  now  he  looked 
paltry  and  insignificant.  There  was  nothing  stable  about 
him.  Her  husband  had  more  manly  dignity.  At  any  rate  he 
did  not  waft  about  with  any  wind.  There  was  something 
evanescent  about  Morel,  she  thought,  something  shifting 
and  false.  He  would  never  make  sure  ground  for  any  woman 
to  stand  on.  She  despised  him  rather  for  his  shrinking  to- 
gether, getting  smaller.  Her  husband  at  least  was  manly,  and 
when  he  was  beaten  gave  in.  But  this  other  would  never 
own  to  being  beaten.  He  would  shift  round  and  round, 
prowl,  get  smaller.  She  despised  him.  And  yet  she  watched 
him  rather  than  Dawes,  and  it  seemed  as  if  their  three  fates 
lay  in  his  hands.  She  hated  him  for  it. 

She  seemed  to  understand  better  now  about  men,  and 
what  they  could  or  would  do.  She  was  less  afraid  of  them, 
more  sure  of  herself.  That  they  were  not  the  small  egoists 
she  had  imagined  them  made  her  more  comfortable.  She 
had  learned  a  good  deal— almost  as  much  as  she  wanted  to 
learn.  Her  cup  had  been  full.  It  was  still  as  full  as  she  could 
carry.  On  the  whole,  she  would  not  be  sorry  when  he  was 
gone. 

They  had  dinner,  and  sat  eating  nuts  and  drinking  by  the 
fire.  Not  a  serious  word  had  been  spoken.  Yet  Clara  realized 
that  Morel  was  withdrawing  from  the  circle,  leaving  her 
the  option  to  stay  with  her  husband.  It  angered  her.  He  was 
a  mean  fellow,  after  all,  to  take  what  he  wanted  and  then 
give  her  back.  She  did  not  remember  that  she  herself  had 
had  what  she  wanted,  and  really,  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart, 
wished  to  be  given  back. 

Paul  felt  crumpled  up  and  lonely.  His  mother  had  really 
supported  his  life.  He  had  loved  her;  they  two  had,  in  fact, 
faced  the  world  together.  Now  she  was  gone,  and  for  ever 
behind  him  was  the  gap  in  life,  the  tear  in  the  veil,  through 
which  his  life  seemed  to  drift  slowly,  as  if  he  were  drawn 
towards  death.  He  wanted  someone  of  their  own  free  initia- 
tive to  help  him.  The  lesser  things  he  began  to  let  go  from 
him,  for  fear  of  this  big  thing,  the  lapse  towards  death,  fol- 


THE  RELEASE  477 

lowing  in  the  wake  of  his  beloved.  Clara  could  not  stand  for 
him  to  hold  on  to.  She  wanted  him,  but  not  to  understand 
him.  He  felt  she  wanted  the  man  on  top,  not  the  real  him 
that  was  in  trouble.  That  would  be  too  much  trouble  to  her; 
he  dared  not  give  it  her.  She  could  not  cope  with  him.  It 
made  him  ashamed.  So,  secretly  ashamed  because  he  was  in 
such  a  mess,  because  his  own  hold  on  life  was  so  unsure, 
because  nobody  held  him,  feeling  unsubstantial,  shadowy, 
as  if  he  did  not  count  for  much  in  this  concrete  world,  he 
drew  himself  together  smaller  and  smaller.  He  did  not  want 
to  die;  he  would  not  give  in.  But  he  was  not  afraid  of  death. 
If  nobody  would  help,  he  would  go  on  alone. 

Dawes  had  been  driven  to  the  extremity  of  life,  until  he 
was  afraid.  He  could  go  to  the  brink  of  death,  he  could  lie  on 
the  edge  and  look  in.  Then  cowed,  afraid,  he  had  to  crawl 
back,  and  like  a  beggar  take  what  offered.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain nobility  in  it.  As  Clara  saw,  he  owned  himself  beaten, 
and  he  wanted  to  be  taken  back  whether  or  not.  That  she 
could  do  for  him. 

It  was  three  o'clock. 

"I  am  going  by  the  four-twenty,"  said  Paul  again  to  Clara. 
"Are  you  coming  then  or  later?" 
"I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"I'm  meeting  my  father  in  Nottingham  at  seven-fifteen," 
he  said. 

"Then,"  she  answered,  "I'll  come  later." 

Dawes  jerked  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  been  held  on  a  strain. 
He  looked  out  over  the  sea,  but  he  saw  nothing. 

"There  are  one  or  two  books  in  the  corner,"  said  Morel. 
"I've  done  with  'em." 

At  about  four  o'clock  he  went. 

"I  shall  see  you  both  later,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Dawes.  "An'  perhaps—one  day— I  s'll 
be  able  to  pay  you  back  the  money  as  " 

"I  shall  come  for  it,  you'll  see,"  laughed  Paul.  "I  s'll  be  on 
the  rocks  before  I'm  very  much  older." 

"Ay— well— "  said  Dawes. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  to  Clara. 


478  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  giving  him  her  hand.  Then  she 
glanced  at  him  for  the  last  time,  dumb  and  humble. 
He  was  gone.  Dawes  and  his  wife  sat  down  again. 
"It's  a  nasty  day  for  travelling,',  said  the  man. 
"Yes,"  she  answered. 

They  talked  in  a  desultory  fashion  until  it  grew  dark. 
The  landlady  brought  in  the  tea.  Dawes  drew  up  his  chair 
to  the  table  without  being  invited,  like  a  husband.  Then  he 
sat  humbly  waiting  for  his  cup.  She  served  him  as  she  would, 
like  a  wife,  not  consulting  his  wish. 

After  tea,  as  it  drew  near  to  six  o'clock,  he  went  to  the 
window.  All  was  dark  outside.  The  sea  was  roaring. 

"It's  raining'yet,"  he  said. 

"Is  it? "  she  answered. 

"You  won't  go  tonight,  shall  you?"  he  said,  hesitating. 

She  did  not  answer.  He  waited. 

"I  shouldn't  go  in  this  rain,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  stay?"  she  asked. 

His  hand  as  he  held  the  dark  curtain  trembled. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

He  remained  with  his  back  to  her.  She  rose  and  went 
slowly  to  him.  He  let  go  the  curtain,  turned,  hesitating, 
towards  her.  She  stood  with  her  hands  behind  her  back, 
looking  up  at  him  in  a  heavy,  inscrutable  fashion. 

"Do  you  want  me,  Baxter?"  she  asked. 

His  voice  was  hoarse  as  he  answered: 

"Do  you  want  to  come  back  to  me?" 

She  made  a  moaning  noise,  lifted  her  arms,  and  put  them 
round  his  neck,  drawing  him  to  her.  He  hid  his  face  on  her 
shoulder,  holding  her  clasped. 

"Take  me  back!"  she  whispered,  ecstatic.  "Take  me  back, 
take  me  back!"  And  she  put  her  fingers  through  his  fine, 
thin  dark  hair,  as  if  she  were  only  semi-conscious.  He  tight- 
ened his  grasp  on  her. 

"Do  you  want  me  again?"  he  murmured,  broken. 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

CHAPTER  XV 


DERELICT 


CLARA  went  with  her  husband  to  Sheffield,  and  Paul 
scarcely  saw  her  again.  Waltel  Morel  seemed  to  have 
let  all  the  trouble  go  over  him,  and  there  he  was,  crawling 
about  on  the  mud  of  it,  just  the  same.  There  was  scarcely 
any  bond  between  father  and  son,  save  that  each  felt  he 
must  not  let  the  other  go  in  any  actual  want.  As  there  was 
no  one  to  keep  on  the  home,  and  as  they  could  neither  of 
them  bear  the  emptiness  of  the  house,  Paul  took  lodgings  in 
Nottingham,  and  Morel  went  to  live  with  a  friendly  family 
in  Best  wood. 

Everything  seemed  to  have  gone  smash  for  the  young 
man.  He  could  not  paint.  The  picture  he  finished  on  the  day 
of  his  mother's  death— one  that  satisfied  him— was  the  last 
thing  he  did.  At  work  there  was  no  Clara.  When  he  came 
home  he  could  not  take  up  his  brushes  again.  There  was 
nothing  left. 

So  he  was  always  in  the  town  at  one  place  or  another, 
drinking,  knocking  about  with  the  men  he  knew.  It  really 
wearied  him.  He  talked  to  barmaids,  to  almost  any  woman, 
but  there  was  that  dark,  strained  look  in  his  eyes,  as  if  he 
were  hunting  something. 

Everything  seemed  so  different,  so  unreal.  There  seemed 
no  reason  why  people  should  go  along  the  street,  and  houses 
pile  up  in  the  daylight.  There  seemed  no  reason  why  these 
things  should  occupy  the  space,  instead  of  leaving  it  empty, 
His  friends  talked  to  him:  he  heard  the  sounds,  and  he  an^ 
swered.  But  why  there  should  be  the  noise  of  speech  he 
could  not  understand. 

He  was  most  himself  when  he  was  alone,  or  working 
hard  and  mechanically  at  the  factory.  In  the  latter  case 

479 


480  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

there  was  pure  forgetfulness,  when  he  lapsed  from  con- 
sciousness. But  it  had  to  come  to  an  end.  It  hurt  him  so,  that 
things  had  lost  their  reality.  The  first  snowdrops  came.  He 
saw  the  tiny  drop-pearls  among  the  grey.  They  would  have 
given  him  the  liveliest  emotion  at  one  time.  Now  they  were 
there,  but  they  did  not  seem  to  mean  anything.  In  a  few 
moments  they  would  cease  to  occupy  that  place,  and  just 
the  space  would  be,  where  they  had  been.  Tall,  brilliant 
tram-cars  ran  along  the  street  at  night.  It  seemed  almost  a 
wonder  they  should  trouble  to  rustle  backwards  and  for- 
wards. "Why  trouble  to  go  tilting  down  to  Trent  Bridges?" 
he  asked  of  the  big  trams.  It  seemed  they  just  as  well  might 
not  be  as  be. 

The  realest  thing  was  the  thick  darkness  at  night.  That 
seemed  to  him  whole  and  comprehensible  and  restful.  He 
could  leave  himself  to  it.  Suddenly  a  piece  of  paper  started 
near  his  feet  and  blew  along  down  the  pavement.  He  stood 
still,  rigid,  with  clenched  fists,  a  flame  of  agony  going  over 
him.  And  he  saw  again  the  sick-room,  his  mother,  her  eyes. 
Unconsciously  he  had  been  with  her,  in  her  company.  The 
swift  hop  of  the  paper  reminded  him  she  was  gone.  But  he 
had  been  with  her.  He  wanted  everything  to  stand  still,  so 
that  he  could  be  with  her  again. 

The  days  passed,  the  weeks.  But  everything  seemed  to 
have  fused,  gone  into  a  conglomerated  mass.  He  could  not 
tell  one  day  from  another,  one  week  from  another,  hardly 
one  place  from  another.  Nothing  was  distinct  or  distinguish- 
able. Often  he  lost  himself  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  could  not 
remember  what  he  had  done. 

One  evening  he  came  home  late  to  his  lodging.  The  fire 
was  burning  low;  everybody  was  in  bed.  He  threw  on  some 
more  coal,  glanced  at  the  table,  and  decided  he  wanted  no 
supper.  Then  he  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair.  It  was  perfectly 
still.  He  did  not  know  anything,  yet  he  saw  the  dim  smoke 
wavering  up  the  chimney.  Presently  two  mice  came  out, 
cautiously,  nibbling  the  fallen  crumbs.  He  watched  them  as 
it  were  from  a  long  way  off.  The  church  clock  struck  two. 
Far  away  he  could  hear  the  sharp  clinking  of  the  trucks  on 


DERELICT  48  J 

the  railway.  No,  it  was  not  they  that  were  far  away.  They 
were  there  in  their  places.  But  where  was  he  himself? 

The  time  passed.  The  two  mice,  careering  wildly,  scanv 
pered  cheekily  over  his  slippers.  He  had  not  moved  a  muscle. 
He  did  not  want  to  move.  He  was  not  thinking  of  anything. 
It  was  easier  so.  There  was  no  wrench  of  knowing  anything. 
Then  from  time  to  time,  some  other  consciousness,  working 
mechanically,  flashed  into  sharp  phrases. 

"What  am  I  doing?" 

And  out  of  the  semi-intoxicated  trance  came  the  answer: 
"Destroying  myself." 

Then  a  dull,  live  feeling,  gone  in  an  instant,  told  him  that 
it  was  wrong.  After  a  while,  suddenly  came  the  question: 
"Why  wrong?" 

Again  there  was  no  answer,  but  a  stroke  of  hot  stubborn- 
ness inside  his  chest  resisted  his  own  annihilation. 

There  was  a  sound  of  a  heavy  cart  clanking  down  the 
road.  Suddenly  the  electric  light  went  out;  there  was  a 
bruising  thud  in  the  penny-in-the-slot  meter.  He  did  not 
stir,  but  sat  gazing  in  front  of  him.  Only  the  mice  had  scut- 
tled, and  the  fire  glowed  red  in  the  dark  room. 

Then,  quite  mechanically  and  more  distinctly,  the  con 
versation  began  again  inside  him. 

"She's  dead.  What  was  it  all  for— her  struggle?" 

That  was  his  despair  wanting  to  go  after  her. 

"You're  alive." 

"She's  not." 

"She  is— in  you." 

Suddenly  he  felt  tired  with  the  burden  of  it. 
"You've  got  to  keep  alive  for  her  sake,"  said  his  will  in 
him. 

Something  felt  sulky,  as  if  it  would  not  rouse. 

"You've  got  to  carry  forward  her  living,  and  whnt  she 
had  done,  go  on  with  it." 

But  he  did  not  want  to.  He  wanted  to  give  up. 

"But  you  can  go  on  with  your  painting,"  said  the  will  in 
him.  "Or  else  you  can  beget  children.  They  both  carry  on 
her  effort." 


482  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"Painting  is  not  living." 
"Then  live." 

"Marry  whom?"  came  the  sulky  question, 

"As  best  you  can." 

"Miriam?" 

But  he  did  not  trust  that. 

He  rose  suddenly,  went  straight  to  bed.  When  he  got 
inside  his  bedroom  and  closed  the  door,  he  stood  with 
clenched  fists. 

"Mater,  my  dear—"  he  began,  with  the  whole  force  of  his 
soul.  Then  he  stopped.  He  would  not  say  it.  He  would  not 
admit  that  he  wanted  to  die,  to  have  done.  He  would  not 
own  that  life  had  beaten  him,  or  that  death  had  beaten  him. 

Going  straight  to  bed,  he  slept  at  once,  abandoning  him- 
self to  the  sleep. 

So  the  weeks  went  on.  Always  alone,  his  soul  oscillated, 
first  on  the  side  of  death,  then  on  the  side  of  life,  doggedly. 
The  real  agony  was  that  he  had  nowhere  to  go,  nothing  to 
do,  nothing  to  say,  and  was  nothing  himself.  Sometimes  he 
ran  down  the  streets  as  if  he  were  mad:  sometimes  he  was 
mad;  things  weren't  there,  things  were  there.  It  made  him 
pant.  Sometimes  he  stood  before  the  bar  of  the  public-house 
where  he  had  called  for  a  drink.  Everything  suddenly  stood 
back  away  from  him.  He  saw  the  face  of  the  barmaid,  the 
gabbling  drinkers,  his  own  glass  on  the  slopped,  mahogany 
board,  in  the  distance.  There  was  something  between  him 
and  them.  He  could  not  get  into  touch.  He  did  not  want 
them;  he  did  not  want  his  drink.  Turning  abruptly,  he  went 
out.  On  the  threshold  he  stood  and  looked  at  the  lighted 
street.  But  he  was  not  of  it  or  in  it.  Something  separated  him. 
Everything  went  on  there  below  those  lamps,  shut  away 
from  him.  He  could  not  get  at  them.  He  felt  he  couldn't 
touch  the  lamp-posts,  not  if  he  reached.  Where  could  he 
go?  There  was  nowhere  to  go,  neither  back  into  the  inn, 
nor  forward  anywhere.  He  felt  stifled.  There  was  nowhere 
for  him.  The  stress  grew  inside  him;  he  felt  he  should  smash. 

"I  mustn't,"  he  said;  and,  turning  blindly,  he  went  in  and 
drank.  Sometimes  the  drink  did  him  good;  sometimes  it  made 


DERELICT  483 

him  worse.  He  ran  down  the  road.  For  ever  restless,  he 
went  here,  there,  everywhere.  He  determined  to  work.  But 
when  he  had  made  six  strokes,  he  loathed  the  pencil  vio- 
lently, got  up,  and  \tf ent  away,  hurried  off  to  a  club  where  he 
could  play  cards  or  billiards,  to  a  place  where  he  could 
flirt  with  a  barmaid  who  was  no  more  to  him  than  the  brass 
pump-handle  she  drew. 

He  was  very  thin  and  lantern- jawed.  He  dared  not  meet 
his  own  eyes  in  the  mirror;  he  never  looked  at  himself.  He 
wanted  to  get  away  from  himself,  but  there  was  nothing  to 
get  hold  of.  In  despair  he  thought  of  Miriam.  Perhaps— 
perhaps—? 

Then,  happening  to  go  into  the  Unitarian  Church  one 
Sunday  evening,  when  they  stood  up  to  sing  the  second 
hymn  he  saw  her  before  him.  The  light  glistened  on  her 
lower  lip  as  she  sang.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  got  something, 
at  any  rate:  some  hope  in  heaven,  if  not  in  earth.  Her  com- 
fort and  her  life  seemed  in  the  after-world.  A  warm,  strong 
feeling  for  her  came  up.  She  seemed  to  yearn,  as  she  sangr 
for  the  mystery  and  comfort.  He  put  his  hope  in  her.  He 
longed  for  the  sermon  to  be  over,  to  speak  to  her. 

The  throng  carried  her  out  just  before  him.  He  could 
nearly  touch  her.  She  did  not  know  he  was  there.  He  saw 
the  brown,  humble  nape  of  her  neck  under  its  black  curls. 
He  would  leave  himself  to  her.  She  was  better  and  bigger 
than  he.  He  would  depend  on  her. 

She  went  wandering,  in  her  blind  way,  through  the  little 
throngs  of  people  outside  the  church.  She  always  looked  so 
lost  and  out  of  place  among  people.  He  went  forward  and 
put  his  hand  on  her  arm.  She  started  violently.  Her  great 
brown  eyes  dilated  in  fear,  then  went  questioning  at  the 
sight  of  him.  He  shrank  slightly  from  her. 

"I  didn't  know—"  she  faltered. 

"Nor  I,"  he  said. 

He  looked  away.  His  sudden,  flaring  hope  sank  again. 
"What  are  you  doing  in  town?"  he  asked, 
i'm  staying  at  Cousin  Anne's." 
"Ha!  For  long?" 


J84  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"No;  only  till  tomorrow." 
"Must  you  go  straight  home?" 

She  looked  at  him,  then  hid  her  face  under  her  hat-brim. 

"No,"  she  said— "no;  it's  not  necessary." 

He  turned  away,  and  she  went  with  him.  They  threaded 
through  the  throng  of  church-people.  The  organ  was  still 
Sounding  in  St.  Mary's.  Dark  figures  came  through  the 
lighted  doors;  people  were  coming  down  the  steps.  The 
large  coloured  windows  glowed  up  in  the  night.  The  church 
was  like  a  great  lantern  suspended.  They  went  down  Hollow 
Stone,  and  he  took  the  car  for  the  Bridges. 

"You  will  just  have  supper  with  me,"  he  said;  "then  I'll 
bring  you  back." 

"Very  well,"  she  replied,  low  and  husky. 

They  scarcely  spoke  while  they  were  on  the  car.  The 
Trent  ran  dark  and  full  under  the  bridge.  Away  towards 
Colwick  all  was  black  night.  He  lived  down  Holme  Road, 
on  the  naked  edge  of  the  town,  facing  across  the  river 
meadows  towards  Sneinton  Hermitage  and  the  steep  scarp 
of  Colwick  Wood.  The  floods  were  out.  The  silent  water 
and  the  darkness  spread  awTay  on  their  left.  Almost  afraid, 
they  hurried  along  by  the  houses. 

Supper  was  laid.  He  swung  the  curtain  over  the  window. 
There  was  a  bowl  of  freesias  and  scarlet  anemones  on  the 
table.  She  bent  to  them.  Still  touching  them  with  her  finger- 
tips, she  looked  up  at  him,  saying: 

"Aren't  they  beautiful?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "What  will  you  drink-coffee?" 
"I  should  like  it,"  she  said. 
"Then  excuse  me  a  moment." 
He  went  out  to  the  kitchen. 

Miriam  took  off  her  things  and  looked  round.  It  was  a 
bare,  severe  room.  Her  photo,  Clara's,  Annie's,  were  on  the 
wall.  She  looked  on  the  drawing-board  to  see  what  he  was 
doing.  There  were  only  a  few  meaningless  lines.  She  looked 
to  see  what  books  he  was  reading.  Evidently  just  an  or- 
dinary novel.  The  letters  in  the  rack  she  saw  were  from 
Annie,  Arthur,  &nd  from  some  man  or  other  she  did  not 


DERELICT  485 

know.  Everything  he  had  touched,  everything  that  was  in 
the  least  personal  to  him,  she  examined  with  lingering  ab- 
sorption. He  had  been  gone  from  her  so  long,  she  wanted 
to  re-discover  him,  his  position,  what  he  was  now.  But  there 
was  not  much  in  the  room  to  help  her.  It  only  made  her 
feel  rather  sad,  it  was  so  hard  and  comfortless. 

She  was  curiously  examining  a  sketch-book  when  he  r(j 
turned  with  the  coffee. 

"There's  nothing  new  in  it,"  he  said,  "and  nothing  vertf 
interesting." 

He  put  down  the  tray,  and  went  to  look  over  her  shoul" 
der.  She  turned  the  pages  slowly,  intent  on  examining  every** 
thing.  "  . 

"H'm!"  he  said,  as  she  paused  at  a  sketch.  "I'd  forgotten 
that.  It's  not  bad,  is  it?" 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  don't  quite  understand  it." 

He  took  the  book  from  her  and  went  through  it.  Again 
he  made  a  curious  sound  of  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"There's  some  not  bad  stuff  in  there,"  he  said. 

"Not  at  all  bad,"  she  answered  gravely. 

He  felt  again  her  interest  in  his  work.  Or  was  it  for  him- 
self? Why  was  she  always  most  interested  in  him  as 
appeared  in  his  work? 

They  sat  down  to  supper. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "didn't  I  hear  something  about 
your  earning  your  own  living?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  bowing  her  dark  head  over  her  cup. 
"And  what  of  it?" 

"I'm  merely  going  to  the  farming  college  at  Broughtcn 
for  three  months,  and  I  shall  probably  be  kept  on  as  a  teacher 
there." 

"I  say— that  sounds  all  right  for  you!  You  always  wanted 
to  be  independent." 
"Yes." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  only  knew  last  week." 

"But  I  heard  a  month  ago,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  but  nothing  was  settled  then." 


486  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

"I  should  have  thought,"  he  said,  "you'd  have  told  me 
you  were  trying." 

She  ate  her  food  in  the  deliberate,  constrained  way,  almost 
as  if  she  recoiled  a  little  from  doing  anything  so  publicly, 
that  he  knew  so  well. 

"I  suppose  you're  glad,"  he  said. 

"Very  glad." 

"Yes— it  will  be  something." 
He  was  rather  disappointed. 

"I  think  it  will  be  a  great  deal,"  she  said,  almost  haughtily, 
resentfully. 

He  laughed  shortly. 

"Why  do  you  think  it  won't?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  it  won't  be  a  great  deal.  Only  you'll 
find  earning  your  own  living  isn't  everything." 

"No,"  she  said,  swallowing  with  difficulty;  "I  don't  sup- 
pose it  is." 

"I  suppose  work  can  be  nearly  everything  to  a  man,"  he 
said,  "though  it  isn't  to  me.  But  a  woman  only  works  with 
1  part  of  herself.  The  real  and  vital  part  is  covered  up." 

"But  a  man  can  give  all  himself  to  a  work?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  practically." 

"And  a  woman  only  the  unimportant  part  of  herself?" 
"That's  it." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  her  eyes  dilated  with  anger. 

"Then,"  she  said,  "if  it's  true,  it's  a  great  shame." 

"It  is.  But  I  don't  know  everything,"  he  answered. 

After  supper  they  drew  up  to  the  fire.  He  swung  her  a 
chair  facing  him,  and  they  sat  down.  She  was  wearing  a 
dress  of  dark  claret  colour,  that  suited  her  dark  complexion 
and  her  large  features.  Still,  the  curls  were  fine  and  free, 
but  her  face  was  much  older,  the  brown  throat  much  thin- 
ner. She  seemed  old  to  him,  older  than  Clara.  Her  bloom  of 
youth  had  quickly  gone.  A  sort  of  stiffness,  almost  of 
woodenness,  had  come  upon  her.  She  meditated  a  little  while, 
then  looked  at  him. 

"And  how  are  things  with  you?"  she  asked. 

"About  all  right,"  he  answered. 


DERELICT  487 

She  looked  at  him,  waiting. 
"Nay,"  she  said,  very  low. 

Her  brown,  nervous  hands  were  clasped  over  her  knee« 
They  had  still  the  lack  of  confidence  or  repose,  the  almost 
hysterical  look.  He  winced  as  he  saw  them.  Then  he  laughed 
mirthlessly.  She  put  her  fingers  between  her  lips.  His  slim, 
black,  tortured  body  lay  quite  still  in  the  chair.  She  sud- 
denly took  her  finger  from  her  mouth  and  looked  at  him. 

"And  have  you  broken  off  with  Clara?" 

"Yes." 

His  body  lay  like  an  abandoned  thing,  strewn  in  the  chair. 
"You  know,"  she  said,  "I  think  we  ought  to  be  married." 
He  opened  his  eyes  for  the  first  time  since  many  months, 
and  attended  to  her  with  respect. 
"Why?"  he  said. 

"See,"  she  said,  "how  you  waste  yourself!  You  might  be 
ill,  you  might  die,  and  I  never  know— be  no  more  then  than 
if  I  had  never  known  you." 

"And  if  we  married?"  he  asked. 

"At  any  rate,  I  could  prevent  you  wasting  yourself  and 
being  a  prey  to  other  women— like— like  Clara." 
"A  prey?"  he  repeated,  smiling. 

She  bowed  her  head  in  silence.  He  lay  feeling  his  despair 
come  up  again. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  marriage  would  be 
much  good." 

"I  only  think  of  you,"  she  replied. 

"I  know  you  do.  But— you  love  me  so  much,  you  want 
to  put  me  in  your  pocket.  And  I  should  die  there  smothered." 

She  bent  her  head,  put  her  finger  between  her  lips,  while 
the  bitterness  surged  up  in  her  heart. 

"And  what  will  you  do  otherwise?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know— go  on,  I  suppose.  Perhaps  I  shall  soon  go 
abroad." 

The  despairing  doggedness  in  his  tone  made  her  go  on 
her  knees  on  the  rug  before  the  fire,  very  near  to  him.  There 
she  crouched  as  if  she  were  crushed  by  something,  and  could 
not  raise  her  head.  His  hands  lay  quite  inert  on  the  arms  of 


488  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

his  chair.  She  was  aware  of  them.  She  felt  that  no\?  he  lay 
at  her  mercy.  If  she  could  rise,  take  him,  put  her  arms  round 
him,  and  say,  "You  are  mine,"  then  he  would  leave  himself 
to  her.  But  dare  she?  She  could  easily  sacrifice  herself.  But 
dare  she  assert  herself?  She  was  aware  of  his  dark-clothed, 
slender  body,  that  seemed  one  stroke  of  life,  sprawled  in 
the  chair  close  to  her.  But  no;  she  dared  not  put  her  arms 
round  it,  take  it  up,  and  say,  "It  is  mine,  this  body.  Leave 
it  to  me."  And  she  wanted  to.  It  called  to  all  her  woman's 
instinct.  But  she  crouched,  and  dared  not.  She  was  afraid  he 
would  not  let  her.  She  was  afraid  it  was  too  much.  It  lay 
there,  his  body,  abandoned.  She  knew  she  ought  to  take  it 
up  and  claim  it,  and  claim  every  right  to  it.  But— could  she 
do  it?  Her  impotence  before  him,  before  the  strong  demand 
of  some  unknown  thing  in  him,  was  her  extremity.  Her 
hands  fluttered;  she  half  lifted  her  head.  Her  eyes,  shudder- 
ing, appealing,  gone  almost  distracted,  pleaded  to  him  sud- 
denly. His  heart  caught  with  pity.  He  took  her  hands,  drew 
her  to  him,  and  comforted  her. 

"Will  you  have  me,  to  marry  me?"  he  said  very  low. 

Oh,  why  did  not  he  take  her?  Her  very  soul  belonged 
to  him.  Why  would  he  not  take  what  was  his?  She  had 
borne  so  long  the  cruelty  of  belonging  to  him  and  not  being 
claimed  by  him.  Now  he  was  straining  her  again.  It  was  too 
much  for  her.  She  drew  back  her  head,  held  his  face  between 
her  hands,  and  looked  him  in  the  eyes.  No,  he  was  hard. 
He  wanted  something  else.  She  pleaded  to  him  with  all  her 
love  not  to  make  it  her  choice.  She  could  not  cope  with  it, 
with  him,  she  knew  not  with  what.  But  it  strained  her  till 
she  felt  she  would  break. 

"Do  you  want  it?"  she  asked,  very  gravely. 

"Not  much,"  he  replied,  with  pain. 

She  turned  her  face  aside;  then,  raising  herself  with  dig- 
nity, she  took  his  head  to  her  bosom,  and  rocked  him  softly. 
She  was  not  to  have  him,  then!  So  she  could  comfort  him. 
She  put  her  fingers  through  his  hair.  For  her,  the  anguished 
sweetness  of  self-sacrifice.  For  him,  the  hate  and  misery  of 
taother  failure.  He  could  not  bear  it— that  breast  which  was 


DERELICT  489 

warm  and  which  cradled  him  without  taking  the  burden  of 
him.  So  much  he  wanted  to  rest  on  her  that  the  feint  of  rest 
only  tortured  him.  He  drew  away. 

"And  without  marriage  we  can  do  nothing?' '  he  asked. 

His  mouth  was  lifted  from  his  teeth  with  pain.  She  put 
her  little  finger  between  her  lips. 

"No,"  she  said,  low  and  like  the  toll  of  a  bell.  "No,  I  think 
not." 

It  was  the  end  then  between  them.  She  could  not  take 
him  and  relieve  him  of  the  responsibility  of  himself.  She 
could  only  sacrifice  herself  to  him— sacrifice  herself  every 
day,  gladly.  And  that  he  did  not  want.  He  wanted  her  to 
hold  him  and  say,  with  joy  and  authority:  "Stop  all  this  rest- 
lessness and  beating  against  death.  You  are  mine  for  a  mate." 
She  had  not  the  strength.  Or  was  it  a  mate  she  wanted?  or 
did  she  want  a  Christ  in  him? 

He  felt,  in  leaving  her,  he  was  defrauding  her  of  life.  But 
he  knew  that,  in  staying,  stifling  the  inner,  desperate  man,  he- 
was  denying  his  own  life.  And  he  did  not  hope  to  give  life 
to  her  by  denying  his  own. 

She  sat  very  quiet.  He  lit  a  cigarette.  The  smoke  went 
up  from  it,  wavering.  He  was  thinking  of  his  mother,  and 
had  forgotten  Miriam.  She  suddenly  looked  at  him.  Her 
bitterness  came  surging  up.  Her  sacrifice,  then,  was  useless. 
He  lay  there  aloof,  careless  about  her.  Suddenly  she  saw 
again  his  lack  of  religion,  his  restless  instability.  He  would 
destroy  himself  like  a  perverse  child.  Well,  then,  he  would! 

"I  think  I  must  go,"  she  said  softly. 

By  her  tone  he  knew  she  was  despising  him.  He  rose 
quietly. 

'Til  come  along  with  you,"  he  answered. 

She  stood  before  the  mirror  pinning  on  her  hat.  How 
bitter,  how  unutterably  bitter,  it  made  her  that  he  rejected 
her  sacrifice!  Life  ahead  looked  dead,  as  if  the  glow  were 
gone  out.  She  bowed  her  face  over  the  flowers— the  freesia? 
so  sweet  and  spring-like,  the  scarlet  anemones,  flaunting  ove* 
the  table.  It  was  like  him  to  have  those  flowers. 

He  moved  about  the  room  with  a  certain  sureness  ox 


490  SONS  AND  LOVERS 

touch,  swift  and  relentless  and  quiet.  She  knew  she  could 
not  cope  with  him.  He  would  escape  like  a  weasel  out  of 
her  hands.  Yet  without  him  her  life  would  trail  on  lifeless. 
Brooding,  she  touched  the  flowers. 

"Have  them!"  he  said;  and  he  took  them  out  of  the  jar, 
dripping  as  they  were,  and  went  quickly  into  the  kitchen. 
She  waited  for  him,  took  the  flowers,  and  they  went  out 
together,  he  talking,  she  feeling  dead. 

She  was  going  from  him  now.  In  her  misery  she  leaned 
against  him  as  they  sat  on  the  car.  He  was  unresponsive. 
Where  would  he  go?  What  would  be  the  end  of  him?  She 
could  not  bear  it,  the  vacant  feeling  where  he  should  be.  He 
was  so  foolish,  so  wasteful,  never  at  peace  with  himself. 
And  now  where  would  he  go?  And  what  did  he  care  that 
he  wasted  her?  He  had  no  religion;  it  was  all  for  the  mo- 
ment's attraction  that  he  cared,  nothing  else,  nothing  deeper. 
Well,  she  would  wait  and  see  how  it  turned  out  with  him. 
When  he  had  had  enough  he  would  give  in  and  come  to  her. 

He  shook  hands  and  left  her  at  the  door  of  her  cousin's 
house.  When  he  turned  away  he  felt  the  last  hold  for  him 
had  gone.  The  town,  as  he  sat  upon  the  car,  stretched  away 
over  the  bay  of  railway,  a  level  fume  of  lights.  Beyond  the 
town  the  country,  little  smouldering  spots  for  more  towns— 
the  sea— the  night— on  and  on!  And  he  had  no  place  in  it! 
Whatever  spot  he  stood  on,  there  he  stood  alone.  From  his 
breast,  from  his  mouth,  sprang  the  endless  space,  and  it  was 
there  behind  him,  everywhere.  The  people  hurrying  along 
the  streets  offered  no  obstruction  to  the  void  in  which  he 
found  himself.  They  were  small  shadows  whose  footsteps 
and  voices  could  be  heard,  but  in  each  of  them  the  same 
night,  the  same  silence.  He  got  off  the  car.  In  the  country 
all  was  dead  still.  Little  stars  shone  high  up;  little  stars  spread 
far  away  in  the  flood-waters,  a  firmament  below.  Every- 
where the  vastness  and  terror  of  the  immense  night  which 
is  roused  and  stirred  for  a  brief  while  by  the  day,  but 
which  returns,  and  will  remain  at  last  eternal,  holding  every- 
thing in  its  silence  and  its  living  gloom.  There  was  no  Time, 
only  Space.  Who  could  say  his  mother  had  lived  and  did 


DERELICT  49I 

not  live?  She  had  been  in  one  place,  and  was  in  another; 
that  was  all.  And  his  soul  could  not  leave  her,  wherever  she 
was.  Now  she  was  gone  abroad  into  the  night,  and  he  was 
with  her  still.  They  were  together.  But  yet  there  was  his 
body,  his  chest,  that  leaned  against  the  stile,  his  hands  on  the 
wooden  bar.  They  seemed  something.  Where  was  he?— one 
tiny  upright  speck  of  flesh,  less  than  an  ear  of  wheat  lost 
in  the  field.  He  could  not  bear  it.  On  every  side  the  immense 
dark  silence  seemed  pressing  him,  so  tiny  a  spark,  into  extinc- 
tion, and  yet,  almost  nothing,  he  could  not  be  extinct.  Night  , 
in  which  everything  was  lost,  went  reaching  out,  beyond 
stars  and  sun.  Stars  and  sun,  a  few  bright  grains,  went  spin- 
ning round  for  terror,  and  holding  each  other  in  embrace, 
there  in  a  darkness  that  outpassed  them  all,  and  left  them 
tiny  and  daunted.  So  much,  and  himself,  infinitesimal,  at  the 
core  a  nothingness,  and  yet  not  nothing. 

"Mother!"  he  whimpered— "mother!" 

She  was  the  only  thing  that  held  him  up,  himself,  amid 
all  this.  And  she  was  gone,  intermingled  herself.  He  wanted 
her  to  touch  him,  have  him  alongside  with  her. 

But  no,  he  would  not  give  in.  Turning  sharply,  he  walked 
towards  the  city's  gold  phosphorescence.  His  fists  were  shut, 
his  mouth  set  fast.  He  would  not  take  that  direction,  to  the 
darkness,  to  follow  her.  He  walked  towards  the  faintly  hum- 
ming, glowing  town,  quickly. 


5 

fl 

§  | 
ij 

1] 

:  : 


